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THE DRAMA OF KINGS 



" Te verb appello sanctissimum Flumen, tibique Jufura prcedico : 
torrenti sanguine plenus ad ripas usque erumpes, tindmque divincz non 
solum] polluenhir sanguine, sed iota rumpentur, et viris mttlto major 
erii numerus sepultorum. Quid fles, O Asclepi ? "—The Asclepjan 
Dialogue. 



THE DRAMA OF KINGS 



By ROBERT BUCHANAN 




STRAHAN & CO., PUBLISHERS 
56 LUDGATE HILL, LONDON 

1871 



Xh* 



LONDON : 

PRINTED BY VIRTUE AND CO., 

CITY ROAD. 



CONTENTS. 



Dedication : 

To the Spirit of Auguste Comte . . . vii 

Proem . . . . . . . xv 

Prelude before the Curtain . . . i 

The Drama of Kings : 

Prologue . . . . . ..ii 

Buonaparte; or, France against the Teuton . . 19 

Choric Interlude : the Titan . . . . 137 

Napoleon Fallen . . . . . 157 

Choric Interlude : the Two Voices . . .261 

The Teuton against Paris . . . -277 

Epilogue . . . . . . 423 

Epilude before the Curtain . . . .4^1 



Notes . . . . . .... 449 

On Mystic Realism : a Note for the Adept . 463 



Bc&tcatfon. 

TO THE 

SPIRIT OF AUGUSTE COMTE 

I INSCRIBE 

THIS DRAMA OF EVOLUTION. 



O thou of the great brow ! 

Fire hath thy City now : 
Her wild scream shakes the earth and troubles Man. 

O spirit who loved best 

This City of the West, 
See where she shatter'd lies — great centre of thy plan. 

Spirit of the great brow ! 

Look back, and whisper now : 
Dost thou despair ? Was thy vast scheme a cheat ? 

Doth it move sad strange mirth 

To think thou dreamedst Earth 
A God to its own soul, a Light to its own feet ? 



viii DEDICA TION. 

Out of the sphere of pain 

All gods have warn'd in vain, 
Brahm, Buddha, Balder, and the Man Divine — 

Still blend in bloody strife, 

Throat to throat, life for life, 
Struggles the Human still, struggles this God of thine. 

Say, is there hope up there, 

Or doth thy heart despair ? 
Out of the deep once more shall Man arise ? — 

Here on the dark earth see 

Stricken Humanity, — 
Is there no lamp indeed beyond his own sad eyes ? 

While thy poor clay sleeps sound 

All hush'd beneath the ground, 
Dost thou the quest thy soul denied pursue ? 

And on some heavenly height, 

With pale front to the light, 
Art dreaming still — what dream? — since thy first 
dream fell thro'. 

Lo, 'tis the old sad chance ! 

Comte, look this day on France — 
Behold her struck with swords and given to shame, 

She who on bended knee 

First to Humanity 
Knelt, and with blood of Man heap'd Man's new 
Altar-flame. 



DED1CA TIOX. ix 

She who first rose and dared ; 

She who hath never spared 
Blood of hers, drop by drop, from her great breast ; 

She who, to free mankind, 

Left herself bound and blind ; 
She whose brave voice let loose the Conscience of 
the West. 

Lo, as she passes by 

To the earth's scornful cry, 
What are those shapes who walk behind so wan ? — • 

Martyrs and prophets born 

Out of her night and morn : 
Have we forgot them yet ? — these, the great friends of 
Man. 

We name them as they go, 

Dark, solemn-faced, and slow — 
Voltaire, with sadden'd mouth but eyes still bright ; 

Turgot, Malesherbes, Rousseau, 

Lafayette, Mirabeau — 
These pass, and many more, heirs of large realms of 
Light. 

Greatest and last pass thou, 

Strong heart and mighty brow, 
Thine eyes surcharged with love of all things fair ; 

Facing with those grand eyes 

The light in the sweet skies, 
While thy shade earthward falls, dark'ning my soul to 
prayer. 



x DEDICA TION. 

And I discern again 

The perfect sphere of pain ; 
And there lies France, great heart of thy great plan — 

In her dark hours of gloom, 

In her worst sin and doom, 
Hath she not ev'n by fire tested the soul of Man ? 



Sure as the great sun rolls, 

The crown of mighty souls 
Is martyrdom, and lo ! she hath her crown. 

On thy pale brow there weigh'd 

Another such proud shade — 
O, but we know ye both, risen or stricken down. 



Sinful, mad, fever-fraught, 

At war with her own thought, 
Great-soul'd, sublime, the heir of constant pain, 

France hath the dreadful part 

To keep alive Man's heart, 
To shake the sleepy blood into the sluggard's brain ; 



Ever in act to spring, 

Ever in suffering, 
To point the lesson and to bear the load, 

Least happy and least free 

Of all the lands that be, 
Dying that all may live, first of the slaves of God. 



DEDICATION. xi 

Hers is the martyr's part, — 

To bear a hungry heart, 
A bursting brain, brave eyes, an empty hand ; 

Such is the lot in store 

For great souls evermore, 
For her, for thee, great soul, for all God's chosen 
band. 

Shall the cold lands stand by, 

Each with proud pitying eye, 
While by her own heart's fever she is torn ? — 

Shall the dull nations draw 

Light from her woes — and law ? 
Yea ! but her hour shall come ; she too shall rest, 
some mom. 

To try each crude desire 

By her own soul's fierce fire, 
To wait and watch with restless brain and heart, 

To quench the fierce thirst never, 

To feel supremely ever, 
To rush where cowards crawl — this is hef awful part. 



Ever to cross and rack, 

Along the same red track, 
Genius is led, and speaks its soul out plain ; 

Blessed are those that give — 

They die that man may live, 
Their crown is martyrdom, their privilege is pain. 



xii DEDICATION. 

Spirit of the great brow ! 

I need no whisper now — 
Last of the flock who die for man each day. 

Ah, but I should despair 

Did I not see up there 
A Shepherd heavenly-eyed on the heights far away. 

No cheat was thy vast scheme, 

Tho' in thy gentle dream 
Thou saw'st no Shepherd watching the wild throng- 

Thou walking the sad road 

Of all who seek for God, 
Blinded became at last, looking at Light so long. 



Yet God is multiform, 

Human of heart and warm, 
Content to take what shape the Soul loves best, 

Before our footsteps still 

He change th as we will — 
Only, — with blood alone we gain Him and are blest. 



O, latest son of her 

Freedom's pale harbinger, 
I see the Shepherd whom thou could'st not find ; 

But on thy great fair brow, 

As thou did'st pass but now, 
Bright burnt the patient Cross of those who bless 
mankind. 



DEDICATION. xiii 

And on her brow, who lies 

Bleeding beneath the skies, 
The mark was set that will not let her rest — 

Sinner in all men's sight, 

Mocker of very Light, 
Yet is she chosen thus, martyr'd, — and shall be blest. 

Go by, O mighty dead ! 
My soul is comforted — 
The Shepherd on the summit needs no prayers — 
Best worshipper is he 
Who suffers and is free — 
That Soul alone blasphemes which trembles and 
despairs. 

Robert Buchanan. 
May, 187 1. 



PROE M. 



Still blowing and growing, 
With sound like torrents flowing, 
The Storm of God in thunder 

Hath raged the whole night long- 
Now in the grey of -morning, 
With never a note of warning, 
O wonder ! just under 

Mine eaves there sounds a song ! 

There springing and singing, 
To the bare branches clinging, 
Just as the clouds are raising, 

A Bird sings fresh and loud — 
Sings tho' the rain is falling, 
Sings while the winds are calling. 
Sings praising, and gazing 

Up to the breaking cloud. 

O ditty of pity,_ 
Sung just without the City, 
Sung in the dark to heighten 
The waking hope of light, 



PROEM. 

Sung, lest the heart should harden, 
By a white bird in my garden, 
To lighten and brighten 
After a woeful night ! 

And higher, with fire 
Of passionate desire, 
While heaven's eye of azure 

Is opening far away, 
The white bird sings full cheerly 
Of all that man loves dearly, 
A measure for pleasure 

Of the bright birth of day. 

Deriding the tiding, 

The soul within me biding 

Smiles at the song to cheer it, 

But drinks the sound like wine. 
Hark ! louder yet of summer 
Sings out the sweet newcomer — 
The spirit, to hear it, 

Trembles to tears divine. 

Bright ranger ! white stranger ! 
Singing most loud in danger, 
Whom storm nor wrath can frighten, 

Who hast no note for care, 
Teach me to turn thy ditty 
Into brave words of pity, 
To brighten and lighten 

Man's passionate despair ! 



PROEM. xa 

When, flying and dying, 
The Storm of God is crying, 
Now when they least desire me 

"Who wake and look around, 
Lest from ill-dreams they harden, 
O white bird in my garden, 
Inspire me and fire me 

With thy prophetic sound ! 

Robert Buchanan. 
May, 1 87 1. 



PRELUDE 

BEFORE THE CURTAIN. 



THE HEAVENLY THEATRE. 

The Lord. The Archangels. The 
Celestial Spectators. 

Chorus. 

Ring within ring, 

Seventy times seven, 
Ring within ring 
Is blossoming 

The Rose of Heaven : 
From the darkness under 

To the radiance o'er, 
Bursting asunder 

Threefold at the core ; 
Threefold is glowing 

The Eternal Light, 
Close round it snowing 

Are the Seraphs white, 



THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

And next more dim 
The Cherubim ; 
And from rings to rings, 
Circles of wings 

Seventy times seven, 
Inward close 
The leaves of the Rose 

Of Heaven ! 

The Heart of the Rose, 

Like the flame on an altar, 
Burns dim and sweet, 
And the leaves of the Rose 
Are folded close, 

That they tremble and falter, 
To feel it beat : 
From ring to ring, 
Ever widening, 

Seventy times seven, 
The glory flows 
From the Heart of the Rose 

Of Heaven ! 
And dimmer growing 

From the burning Heart, 



PRELUDE BEFORE THE CURTAIN. 

Still fainter flowing 

Thro' every part, 

The sweet life sighs 

To the outermost leaves 
Most frail and wan ; 
And there it lies, 
Trembles and dies, 

For the outermost leaves 
Are the soul of Man. 

Ring within ring 

Seventy times seven, 
Ring within ring 
Is blossoming 

The Rose of Heaven ! 
And for evermore 
The flame at the core 
Burns on, consuming 
The circlet blooming, 
Suffused and bright, 
Next to the Light : — 
Yea, as oil feedeth flame, 

The innermost part 

Of the seventy times seven 



THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

Melts ; — and the same 

Becomes one with the Heart 
Of the Rose of Heaven. 

And evermore 
Burning on to the core 
The rings of the Rose 

Narrow inward, and turn 
More white and bright, 
Yea, the rings of the Rose 

Contract and burn 
Till they reach the Light ; 
And ever-renewed 

From root and seed, 
With the fire for food 

Whose flame they feed, 
First dim and wan 
As the soul of Man, 
They lessen, brightening 

From fold to fold 

Seventy times seven, 
Whitening and lightening 

Till they die in gold 
On the Heart of the Rose of Heaven. 



PRELUDE BEFORE THE CURTAIN. 

Burn and close, 
leaves of the Rose ! 
Spread and shine, 
O Flower divine ! 
Ring within ring 

Seventy times seven, 
Ring within ring, 
Grow blossoming, 

O beautiful Rose of Heaven ! 



Clouds rise. Lucifer appears upon the 

Stage. 

Lucifer. 

Hail, ye Spectators! whose immortal eyes 
Within the Theatre Divine have seen 
So many moving plays and interludes 
To while away the tedious perfect time ! 
To-night, once more upon this stage of Earth 
[Behold it! fair as ever, green and bright, 
Carpeted still with flowers as beautiful 
As any gems that blossom in the hair 
Of you great Angels, and still canopied 
With the ethereal azure star-enwrought] 



8 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

To-night, upon this well-worn stage of Earth, 
I come Choragus to your highnesses, 
Announcing now a sort of tragedy, 
A Choric trilogy of tragedies 
In the Greek fashion ; and I have selected 
The fairest cherubs and the sweetest-voiced 
To play the part of Chorus. What we play 
Is called for briefness ApS/xa Kvpuwv, 
The actors mortal, Earth the scene, the Time 
The Present — if I dare use an abstract term 
Fashion'd by purblind world-philosophers, 
To ears that measure out eternity. 

A Spirit. 

Is it not then forbidden for the poet 
To dramatise contemporary woes ? 
Have ye forgot the sin of Phrynichos ? 

Lucifer. 

Is that Euripides or yEschylos ? 
Or some poor poet blest to nothingness 
Whose name has perish'd from the Attic 
scroll ? 



PRELUDE BEFORE THE CURTAIN. 9 

Excuse me, then, the Author forms his theme 

In his own fashion, and I must confess 

He ever aims at planning novelty. 

The Author is a most distinguished person, 

Perhaps there is no mightier honour d here, 

But for the present chooses to remain 

Unknown, unseen. What we present to 

night 
Is but a fragment of a series 
Beginning with the first Man and the Snake. 

Orchestra, now begin the overture ! 

And all ye sleepy Seraphs who delight 

In lolling under rosy-coloured clouds 

And blowing silvern trumpets, all ye Angels 

Who only turn your slothful eyes on Art 

When like a naked Phryne she awakes 

Celestial appetite and dainty dream, 

All triflers in the blue ethereal courts, 

All idle gentlemen in singing robes, 

Close eyes, shut ears!— for we prepare a 

show 
Most tragic and most solemn ; we design 
To treat of mighty matters movingly, 



io THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

Nor shall our actors in their skill disdain 
The higher pathos — ye shall look on scenes 
To make the very angels moan, and draw- 
Tears from the eyelids of the Son of God ! 



THE DRAMA OF KINGS- 



PROLOGUE. 



PROLOGUE. 

Enter Time, cloaked and hooded, leaning on a 
Staff. 

I AM that ancient shadow men call Time, 
Silent, infirm, frail-footed, snow'd upon 
By many winters, faring westward still, 
And ever looking backward to the east. 
How far these feeble feet must wander yet 
I know not. All is dark before my steps ; 
And oft it seems to my bewilder'd sense, 
That I alone of all things do not move, 
But like the pale moon plunging on thro 5 

mist 
Make but a fancied motion for the eye, 
And stationary with enchanted eyes 
Seem still to pass all shapes that swift as 

clouds 
Slide by for ever. Behind me like the sea 
Seen amid tempest from a mountain top, 



14 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

Innumerable years break awfully 
To foam of living faces and to moan 
Of living voices ; and upon that waste, 
Looming afar off ghost-like in my track, 
One still moves luminous-footed, stretching 

hands 
To bless the angry waves whereon He walks. 

To night I come as Prologue, to prepare 
Your ears for subtle matter. Do ye hear 
That wind of human voices anguishing 
Afar off, like the wind Euroclydon 
Moaning around Mount Ida ? Hark again ! 
" Liberty ! Liberty !" the wild voice cries, 
" Liberty ! " now, — and ever " Liberty ! " 
But whom they call by that mysterious 

name 
I say not, nor can any angel say, 
Nor one thing under God. God knows and 

hears. 
That one word and none other hath been 

cried 
By men from the beginning. I have heard 
The sound so long, I smile ; but at the same 



PROLOGUE. 15 

Kingdoms have fallen like o'er-ripen'd fruit, 
Realms wither'd, heaven rain'd blood and 

earth yawn'd graves, 
The seasons sicken'd changing their due 

course, 
The stars burnt blue for many awful nights 
The corpse-lights of a world that lay as dead. 
And now to-night we show on this same stage 
How, uttering each that one mysterious word, 
Two mighty Nations gather' d up their crests 
Against each other, struck and struck 

again, 
Met, mingled, roar'd, fell, rose, fought throat 

to throat, 
Until their hate became the wide world's 

scorn ; 
How dimly, darkly, for the great Idea, 
Each smote, and stagger'd on from blow to 

blow, 
While one by one came Leaders veil'd to 

each, 
Phantoms, each cloak' d and hooded and led 

by me, 
Each saying "In the name of Liberty !" 



1 6 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

And drew them as the white moon draws the 

sea; 
How one by one these threw their cloaks 

aside 
And stood in a red sunset, bloody men 
Who juggled with the mystic word of God ; — 
Yet how from sorrow came mysterious good, 
Seeing Man's wrong'd Soul hoarded its deep 

strength 
In silence, making ready for that day 
When God Himself, who knows the secret 

only, 
May bless it with that single truth it seeks. 

\_A confused noise. 

It is begun. Germania overthrown, 

Mad, stricken, lies upon her back and glares 

At heaven from a bloody battle-field, 

And dimly sees in the dark void above her 

A dark Shape, a dim-footed Phantasy, 

And deemeth 'tis the mighty truth men seek. 

Hark, the drums' beat ! the cannons thunder 

deep ! 
Earth shakes ! . . Now all is silent, and I go 



PROLOGUE. 17 

To walk at dark across the battle-field, 
And, stooping o'er each stricken bleeding man, 
Point with a skeleton finger to the stars, 
And whispering my other awful name, 
Draw back my hood a moment — thus ! 

[ L T n hoods — shows the mask of a Caput Mortuum . 

My name 
Is also Death ; and I am deathless. I 
Am Time and most eternal. I am he, 
God's Usher, and my duty it is to lead 
The actors one by one upon the scene, 
And afterwards to guide them quietly 
Through that dark postern when their parts 

are played. 
They come and go, alas ! but I abide, 
And I am weary of the garish stage. 



THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

Part I. 

BUONAPARTE; 
OR, FRANCE AGAINST THE TEUTON. 



SPEAKERS. 



Kings, &c. 

Napoleon Buonaparte. 

Alexander I., Czar of Russia. 

Jerome Buonaparte, King of Westphalia. 

Louisa, Queen of Prussia. 

The King of Saxony. 

The Prince Primate, Von Dalberg. 

Kings, Princes, and Dukes of the Rhenish Confederation. 

Members of the Tugendbund : 
The Baron von Stein. 
The Professor Jahn. 
The Poet Arndt, 



Scene — Erfurt, in the Duchy of Saxe Coburg Gotha. 
Time — October, 1808, during the great Congress of Powers, 



SC£iV£.— THE TOWN OF ERFURT, IN THE 
DUCHY OF SAXE COBURG GOTHA. 

STEIN. An OFFICER. 

Officer. 

Hark how they shout, thronging the busy 

streets, 
While the imperial butcher passes by 
To course the hare on Jena's fatal plain ! 

Stein. 

Ill-omen'd place and hour ! ill-omen'd day ! 
Friend, I beheld them coming forth ! I 

looked 
On Caesar's sallow face — I saw it, I — 
And found no sunlight there to dazzle me : 
Only the insolent frost-bitten cheek 



24 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

Bloodless and hard like iron, only eyes 
Snake-like, the snake's eyes of the Corsican. 
On a white charger rolling like a wave, 
He rode sunk deep into his saddle thus, 
His shoulders rounded, while his bridle 

hand 
Hung at his side as heavily as lead 
Tho' the steed champ'd against the pitiless 

rein ; 
And all the while with low soft speech he 

smiled 
To Russia, who, on a black Barbary mare 
Riding with stirrups long and easy rein, 
Fixing his evil eyes in one fond stare 
Of fascination on his royal comrade, 
Show'd like a cheated wolf. Behind these 

twain, 
Who riding hung together amorously, 
Follow'd the lacqueys, — Prussia's prince and 

chief, 
Wiirtemberg, Saxony, Bavaria, 
Westphalia leering at the burghers' wives, 
Hesse, Baden, all the princedoms and the 
powers, 



BUONAPARTE. 25 

So mingled up with equerries, knights-at- 

arms, 
Blackcoats and redcoats, horsemen, footmen, 

huntsmen, 
That all became a shameful garden-show 
Wherein no eye could pick the several parts ; 
Only those two proud Emperors rode 

supreme, 
In their proud sunshine dwarfing all the rest 
That follow'd them to less than nothingness ; 
And yet I swear, — I saw it with mine eyes, — 
Not one of those but drew his lacquey's air 
In gaily, not one face but was content 
So to be shone upon by those that led, 
Not one, not one, but like a very dog 
Follow'd behind his masters tame and proud, 
Fawning upon their footprints step by step, 

Officer. 

My heart aches, and my tongue fails. All 

thy words 
Are wormwood. Yet the people of the earth 
Are helpless, seeing those that lead are blind. 



26 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 



Stein. 

O God, God, God ! that these things should 

be known 
In the same land, beneath the self-same sky, 
That saw the giant Karl arise his height 
The head of all the earth at Paderborn, 
When dwarfd beside him great Pope Leo 

stood, 
And the great Caliph of the heathen East 
Rain'd gold and gems at the imperial feet ! 
O God ! are the ghosts laid for evermore 
That walk'd about the Teuton vales at night 
And awed the souls of men, and kept them 

free? 
Is Karl forgotten ? Is great Fritz's spirit 
Spell-laid within the shade of Sans Souci ? 
Is Germany, is every German soul, 
Dumb, fetter' d, broken, miserable, dead ? 
Are this man's functions supernatural, 
Divine above all life, all love, all law, 
That he should walk upon the waves of 

earth 



BUOXA PARTE. 27 

Casting his bloody shade as on a sea, 

And they should hush themselves around his 

feet 
Lightly as ripples on a summer pond r 
Earth, water, air — the clouds, the waves, the 

winds, — 
The stars in their pale courses, — day and 

night 
Forgetful of their natural equipoise, 
Shape their mysterious functions to his will ; 
Kings lick his feet like dogs ; he lifts his 

finger 
And epileptic in his chair the Pope 
Foams speechless at the mouth ; — body and 

soul 
Obey him as an impulse and a law ; — 
The eyes, the ears, the tongues, of all the 

world 
Are blown one way like all a forest's leaves 
To see, hear, and entreat him ; — by his smile 
The earth is brighten'd, — and 'tis straight fine 

weather ! 
Let him but frown, all darkens and the sun 
Uprises bloody as a vulture's crest ! 



2S THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

Like hawks obedient to the falconer 
The Kings of Europe wait, and at a sign 
Soar, while he sits and smiles, in fierce pursuit 
Of any wretched quarry he would slay ; 
But let him whistle, and with bloody beaks 
They turn, and preen their plumage, and are 

fed. 
Cry ? I will cry to God with all my soul ! 
Can God keep calm, and look upon these 

things ? 

CHORUS. 

O Spirits dreaming, 
With blue eyes beaming, 
With bright locks flowing 

And folded wings, 
Your lips are parted, 
While happy-hearted, 
To rapture glowing, 

Sweet things each sings — 
And the bright song quivers 
Like the wash of rivers, 
Like west winds blowing, 

Like bubbling springs ; — 



BUONAPARTE. 

In quiet places 
Shine your soft faces, 
While we are throwing 

Our curse at Kings, 

Sweet music never, 
But something ever 
To curse and cry for, 

Till death appear ; 
No dreamy singing, 
But scorn and stinging, 
Deep shame to sigh for, 

Doom drear to fear ; 
Hunger and sorrow 
Both night and morrow, 
While all we try for 

Grows harsh and sere : — 
O'er barren meadows 
We drift like shadows, 
We dream, we die for 

The Golden Year. 

O year ! O summer ! 
O promised comer — 



3 o THE DRAMA OF KINGS, 

Promised to us 

Since time began — 
As in the beginning, 
Deep craft and sinning 
Swiftly pursue us 

And ban each plan ; 
A thousand rulers 
And soul-befoolers 
Have perish'd through us 

After a span ; 
But fresh fierce faces 
Still take their places, 
New Kings subdue us 

And trouble Man. 



Slay them ? — we slay them : — 
Our souls gainsay them — ■ 
Comes Ate bringing 

Her fatal boon ; 
But still fresh creatures, 
With the old false features, 
Rise up, all singing 

The moon-mad tune ; — 



BUONAPARTE. 

What comfort to us 
When these undo us ; 
To know their stinging 

Must cease so soon- 
When with fierce laughter 
New Kings come after, 
As quickly springing 

As grass in June : 



O Spirits dreaming, 
With blue eyes beaming, 
Your song, like ours, 

Is still the same — 
Ye hear in glory 
A familiar story, 
But it sings of flowers, 

Not shame and blame- 
And your lips are parted, 
Ye smile sweet-hearted, 
And ye join in your bowers 

With eyes aflame. 
To a note as weary, 
But dark and dreary, 



32 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

Our souls, our powers, 

Lie sick and tame. 

O, wherefore ever 
Kill Kings, and never 
Find earth outlast her 

Exceeding pain ? 
All man o'erthroweth 
Again regroweth, 
O'er each disaster 

"We gain, in vain. 
Slain Kings each morrow 
Bring seed of sorrow. 
Doth grass grow faster, 

Or golden grain ? 
After each reaping 
We see upcreeping 
Another Master ! 

Another chain ! 

Like waves of ocean 
Is our wild motion, 
In sad storm blended, 

With winds opprest, 



BUONAPARTE. 33 

Ever perceiving 

New cause for grieving : — 

From storm defended, 

O blest were rest ! 
Tho' in its season 
We know each treason 
Must sink wave-rended 

In our great breast ; 
Tho' all that win us 
Are tomb'd within us, — 
Would all were ended ! 

Yea, rest were best. 



O Spirits dreaming 
With blue eyes gleaming, 
With nought to sigh for 

As we sigh here, 
Beyond disaster, 
With one fix'd Master, 
With nought to vie for, 

With fear, nor tear- 
The soul speeds thither, 
Our dreams go with her, 
D 



34 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

We yearn to fly, for 

All life seems sere. 
By waters dreary, 
Moon-wan and weary, 
We dream, we die for 

The Golden Year ! 

STEIN. ARNDT JAHN. 

Stein. 

Good morrow, friends. Have ye been feast- 
ing sight 
On Caesar's triumph, that ye walk the earth 
With eyes so fevered and with mien so 
wild ? 

JAHN. 

Why, yes, we did our turn of gape and 

stare. 
'Twas hot, hell-hot — and the heat turned my 

brain, 
So that methought (laugh with me, lest ye 

weep !) 
'Twas very Ccesar whom I look'd upon, 



BUONAPARTE. 35 

And I as soothsayer was stepping forth 
To croak my warning threat into his ear, 
When Arndt here clutched me fast and held 

me back, 
And I awoke again to the wild day ; 
So open-mouthed as he went by we stared 
All in the sunshine and the festal light, 
Like two black ravens on a bridal path 
Hopping in omen of a funeral. 

Stein. 

O blessed omen for the weary world ! 

Jahx. 

How many hours, and days, and months, and 

years, 
Shall this go on r Deeper and deeper yet 
We wallow. Is there any living hope \ 

Stein. 

Hope lasts with life. Life lasts ; so hope 
thou on. 



36 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 



JAHN. 

Life lasts r I know not. Oft it seems that 

all 
Is dead, dead — dead and rotten — Liberty 
No more a living shape supremely fair, 
But a mere ghost unpleasant to the thoughts 
Of foolish Kings at bedtime. Every wind 
Is tainted by this pestilence from France. 
No man may sitting at his private board 
Discuss in quietness his own affairs, 
Debt, his last illness, private history, 
But straight the Skeleton of Law appears, 
Pressing its bony finger on the lips. • 
In every corner twinkle weasels' ears, 
Long noses snuffing treason, sharp white 

teeth 
Hungry for blood ; the unclean things of 

scent 
Swarm numerous as locusts, eating up 
Our grain, our very substance ; ay, and 

mark ! 
If thou and I — poor devils that we are — 



NAP ARTE. 37 

Would fly from Malebolge, from this Hell, 
And speed to some far land and colonise, 
Straightway upon the frontier rises up 
The Skeleton, waving us back again, 
In this new Caesar's name, to beggary. 
Meantime the once blest frame of Germany 
Sickens : disease and famine gnaw her 

breasts, 
Sorrow and shame destroy her. All appeal 
To law is fatal, since this tyrant France 
Is law, fate, death ; and each man's flesh and 

soul 
Are fruit his myrmidons may pluck at will. 
All men of noble birth must flock perforce 
To spend three months of every year at 

court, 
There to be taught to play this mad French 

tune 
Upon the one-string'd fiddle of despair. 
All the fresh streams of trade are choked and 

stuff'd 
With antique carrion and new garbage. 

Nought 
Goes out or in our poor Germania's mouth 



33 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

But the great thief clutches his lion's share ; 

And even the poor peasants, — Hans who 
chops 

Wood in the cold, Fritz who grow T s rheu- 
matic 

Leech-hunting in the marshes, — even these, 

Are robb'd, poor slaves, of their mere mite of 
salt,— 

While every pipe they smoke beside the 
fire 

To warm their agued limbs in wretched 
age, 

And every pinch of snuff they feebly take 

To clear their purblind eyes of rheum and 
mist, 

Is interdicted till they first have given 

Due pinch and pipeful to the Emperor ! 

Stein. 

Still courage ! Evil days have been ere 

this, 
Social disease as deep, civic disease 
As dreadful. It shall end. Have we not 

sworn 



BUONAPARTE. 39 

By Christ that it shall end ? Sow thy fierce 

words 
Abroad, my Jahn, — they shall be winged 

seed — 
Prepare, my Arndt, thy passionate sweet 

songs, 
Sing them at night by the Babylonian river, 
They shall create a new and Teuton soul. 

Arndt. 

And yet I scarce can speak for bitterness. 
O Stein, while I prepare an eager cry 
To move the stagnant hearts of simple men, 
Voices more strong and more intense than 

mine, 
Souls gifted and accredited from God, 
Cry to the monster, " Hail," sing in his ear 
Pindaric hymn and paean, fan his glory 
Like light winds full of scent from beds of 

flowers. 

Stein. 

Voices of parasites and summer bards — 
For such have ever sung to conquerors. 



4o THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

Arndt. 

But yestermorn the old man Wieland stood 
Enlarging his weak vision for an hour 
Upon the demigod, who of Greece and Rome 
Talk'd like a petulant schoolboy; and this day 
I beheld Goethe with a doubtful face, 
Part dubious and part eager, proof of thoughts 
Half running on ahead, half lingering, 
Enter the quarters of the Emperor ; — 
But when he issued forth his features wore 
Their pitiless smile of perfect self-delight, 
His lips already quiver'd with a paean, 
His stately march was quicken'd eagerly, 
And all his face and all his gait alive 
With glory that the sun of Corsica 
Had shone upon him to his heart's content. 
Which of our singers is not garrulous 
In praise of Europe's curse and Prussia's 
shame ? 

Jahn. 

I trust no poets. They are moonshine men, 
And like the folk in Persia fall abash'd 



BUONAPARTE. 41 

At sunlight. There is mightier matter here, — 
Short, sharp, and like himself, — a word of 

hope 
From Marshal Vorwarts, our old fire-eater, 
The old one with the bright heart of a boy, 
Who jingles his sharp spurs and curses 

France 
Morn, noon, and night in Pomerania — 
[Reads] "Thieves!" "cowards!" "windbags!" 

" men of straw ! " " geese ! " " swine !" 
(The strength of Bliicher lies in expletives 
And sword-thrusts) with such words hurl'd 

out like blows, 
He cries, concluding with a trooper's curse, 
A round " God-damn-his-soul-to-hell-fire " 

oath 
On the French Satan. As for your singing- 
men, 
Your lute-players, your festal Matthissons, 
They buzz in their own fashion, in the 

old 
Blue-bottle fashion. While the blue-flies 

hum, 
The curs yelp gladly. I have heard they eat 



42 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

Dog-pie in China as a delicacy : — 

to be cook to Caesar for a day ! 

To mince John Muller and dish Zschokke 

up, 
As dainties set before the Emperor ! 

Stein. 

The life of every man is as a wave, 

And having risen its appointed height 

It must descend ; and I believe this day 

Our eyes have look'd upon Napoleon 

Crested to his full glory, and in act 

Of over-fall. The power of tyranny 

Can go no higher; henceforth its fierce 

strength 
Shall be expended downwards, be assured. 

JAHN. 

1 could have roar'd for joy like any bull 
To see him fondling Russia. To be tamed, 
Bears must be taken in their infancy ; 

But I beheld the old bloodthirsty look 

Deep in the eyes of this one, tho' they blink'd 



BUONAPARTE. 43 

So tamely. Why, his paws are scarcely 

clean 
From Austerlitz ! Have patience ! this last 

pet 
Was caught too old, and it will hug him yet ! 

Stein. 
.Honour to Austria, that he holds aloof — 

JAHN. 

there is life and soul in Austria still : 

The poor old Bird hath struck and struck and 

struck, 
Till he is shredded to a scarecrow, worn 
To a thin shadow. In the undaunted one 

1 honour what I hated, and yet fear ! 
Were I a poet (I am none, thank God) 
Why I would sing a paean in his praise. 

Stein. 

For something fairer far and more divine 
Poets shall sing and prophets cry full soon. 



44 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

O friends, we shall become a people yet — 
Tho' the first bond was like a wisp of straw 
Torn by this Ape asunder, tho' no more 
Under the banner left by Karl the Great 
We fight against oppression, still, thank God, 
We are a people yet, and I believe 
Not wholly blind and helpless, tho' we reach 
Pur hands out darkly, waiting on for light. 
Austria is torn from her imperial seat, 
Prussia lies healing' of her last wide wound, 
The lesser Kingdoms walk in flowery chains ; 
Germania, the name, the word, the race, 
Still lives, and by Germania soon or late 
Shall Buonaparte die. At Austerlitz 
Fell Austria, here the Prussian eagle fell. 
On both those memorable battlefields, 
Rose like a Spirit from a murder'd man 
The white truth, hovering for a moment there 
An Iris on the Death-cloud. Out of the 

proud 
Imperial Austrian ruin shall emerge 
The Teuton : not a temple such as that 
Napoleon overthrew — not a mere name 
Descending thro' a line of shadowy Kings — 



BUONAPARTE. 45 

Not a delusion and patrician lie, 

A pasteboard Crown and an unholy Sword — 

Not these, but more than these, a life, a soul, 

A living man, the Teuton, lord of all 

He from his fathers first inherited, — 

The heart of Europe water'd by the Rhine. 

For ours too long hath been a mighty house 

Divided in itself against itself, , 

Too eager to be dragged by peevish Kings 

Out of itself to wander in the world : 

And we indeed are stricken at this day 

Because we follow'd in an evil hour 

Blind rulers who affrighted for their crowns 

Led us against the house republican 

Built by our brethren in the fields of France. 

For, mark me, they who follow and fight for 

crowns 
Fight for a figment merely and a sign, 
And should the dwellers in a nation say 
Within our chambers there shall sit no Kings, 
They err who blindly for the sake of Kings 
Would carry thither sword and flaming fire. 
A people is a law unto itself, 
The law of God will shape that lesser law, 



46 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

And if there come a time when Kings are 

doom'd, 
Why let them like a feast-day pageant pass 
And be forgotten, or like some old tale 
Become a goodly theme for the fireside. 
O if the Teuton soul we all inherit 
Would rise supreme, and for the one white 

truth 
Strike blow on blow half as persistently 
As Austria hath, because she fear'd to lose 
The jewels in her crown, the world were free 
Of this accredited and crowned Shape, 
That walketh at his will, and when he will, 
Into the porches of the great Abodes 
Of nations : knocks like Death at every 

door, 
And enters every kingly bed-chamber 
As sleep doth, bringing there instead of sleep 
Sleepless Despair and haunting shapes of 

Fear! 
What, shall this Robber sit with folded 

arms 
Upon the hearth of our fair dwelling-place, 
And shall the foolish people of the house 



BUONAPARTE. 47 

Do courtesies and kill the fatted calf ? 

Nay, rather let him reckon up his days, 

For he was doom'd (and so all Kings are 

doom'd) 
Whene'er he ceased to wield the righteous 

sword 
Upon the threshold of his threaten'd land. 
And wander'd out into the open world 
To plunder in the name of Liberty. 



CHORUS. 

'Twas the height of the world's night, there 
was neither warmth nor light, 
And the heart of Earth was heavy as a 
stone ; 
Yet the nations sick with loss saw the surge 
of heaven toss 
Round the meteor of the Cross ; and with a 
moan 
All the people desolate gazed thereon and 
question'd fate, 
And the wind went by and bit them to the 
bone. 



43 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

Hope was fled and Faith was dead, and the 
black pall overhead 
Hung like Death's, for doom was heavy 
everywhere, — 
When there rose a sudden gleam, then a 
thunder, then a scream, 
Then a lightning, stream on stream upon 
the air! 
And a dreadful ray was shed around the Cross, 
and it grew red, 
And the pallid people leapt to see the 
glare. 

Fire on the heights of France ! Fire on the 
heights of France ! 
Fire flaming up to heaven, streak on 
streak ! 
How on France Kings look't askance ! how 
the nations join'd in dance ! 
To see the glory glance from peak to peak ! 
How the chain'd lands curst their chance, as 
they bent their eyes on France ! 
Earth answer d, and her tongues began to 
speak. 



BUONAPARTE. 49 

Now hark! — who lit the spark in the miserable 
dark ? 
O Washington, men miss thee and forget. 
Where did the light arise, in answer to man's 
cries r 
In the West ; in those far skies it rose and 
set. 
Who brought it in his breast from the 
liberated West ? 
Speak his name, and kneel and bless him : 
Lafayette. 

O Sire, that madest Fire ! How with pas- 
sionate desire 
Leapt the nations while it gather'd and 
up-streamed ; 
Then they fed it, to earth's groans, with 
Man's flesh and blood and bones, 
And with Altars and with Thrones ; and 
still it screamed. 
Then they cast a King thereon — but a flash, 
and he was gone. 
Then they brought a Queen to feed it : — 
how it gleam'd I 
E 



5° 



THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 



Then it came to pass, Earth's frame seem'd 
dissolving in the flame, 
Then it seem'd the Soul was shaken on its 
seat, 
And the pale Kings with thin cries look'd in 
one another's eyes, 
Saying, " Hither now it flies, and O how 
fleet! 
Sound loud the battle-cry, we must trample 
France or die, 
Strike the Altar, cast it down beneath our 
feet." 



Forth they fared. The red fire flared on the 
heights of France, and glared 
On the faces of the free who kept it fed ; 
Came the Kings with blinded eyes, but with 
baffled prayers and cries 
They beheld it grow and rise, still bloody- 
red; 
When lo ! the Fire's great heart, like a red 
rose cloven apart, 
Open'd swiftly, to deep thunder overhead. 



BUONAPARTE. 51 

And lo, amid the glow, while the pale Kings 
watched in woe, 
Rose a single Shape, and stood upon the 
pyre. 
Its eyes were deeply bright, and its face, in 
their sad sight, 
Was pallid in a white-heat of desire, 
And the cheek was ashen hued ; and with 
folded arms it stood 
And smiled bareheaded, fawn'd on by the 
Fire. 

Forehead bare, the Shape stood there, in the 
centre of the glare, 
And cried, "Away ye Kings, or ye shall 
die.'"' 
And it drove them back with flame, o'er the 
paths by which they came, 
And they wrung their hands in shame as 
they did fly. 
As they fled it came behind fleeter-footed than 
the wind, 
And it scatter'd them, and smote them hip 
and thisrh. 



52 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

All amazed, they stood and gazed, while their 
crying kingdoms blazed, 
With their fascinated eyes upon the 
Thing ; — 
When lo, as clouds dilate, it grew greater and 
more great, 
And beneath it waited Fate with triple 
sting ; 
All colossus-like and grand, it bestrode the 
sea and land, 
And behold, — the crowned likeness of a 
King! 

Then the light upon the height that had 
burned in all men's sight 
Was absorb'd into the creature where he 
smiled. 
O his face was wild and wan — but the burning 
current ran 
In the red veins of the Man who was its 
child :— 
To the sob of the world's heart did the meteor- 
light depart, 
Earth darken, and the Altar fall defiled. 



BUONAPARTE. 

Then aloud the Phantom vow'd, " Look upon 

me, O ye proud ! 
Kiss my footprints ! I am reaper, ye are 

wheat ! 
Ye shall tremble at my name, ye shall eat ray 

bread in shame, 
I will make ye gather tame beneath my 

seat." 
And the gold that had been bright on the 

hair of Kings at night, 
Ere dawn was shining dust about his feet. 

At this hour behold him tower, in the dark- 
ness of his power, 
Look upon him, search his features, O ye 
free ! 
Is there hope for living things in this fiery 
King of Kings, 
Doth the song that Freedom sings fit such 
as he r 
Is it night or is it day, while ye bleed beneath 
his sway ? 
It is night, deep night on earth and air and. 
sea. 



54 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

Still the height of the world's night. There is 
neither warmth nor light, 
And the heart of Earth is heavy as a stone ; 
And within the night's dark core where the sad 
Cross gleam'd before 
Sits the Shape that Kings adore, upon a 
Throne ; 
And the nations desolate crawl beneath and 
curse their fate, 
And the wind goes by and bites them to 
the bone. 



O Sire that mad'st the Fire, and the Shape 
that dread and dire 
Came from thence, the first and last born of 
the same, 
To Thee we praying throng, for Thou alone 
art strong, 
To right our daily wrong and bitter shame : 
From the aching breast of earth, lift the red 
Fire and its birth ! 
Consume them — let them vanish in one 
flame ! 



BUONAPARTE. SS 

Buonaparte. The Czar. Jerome 
Buonaparte. Louis Buonaparte. 
The Kings of Saxony, Bavaria, 
Wurtemberg. The Prince Primate 
von Dalberg. The Hereditary 
Princes and Dukes of the Rhenish 
Confederation. 

Buonaparte. 

Thank God Almighty for a peaceful day. 
Would we had never nobler game to chase 
Than that just slain on Jena. What say'st 

thou, 
Von Dalberg ? Is there any living thing 
Runs faster from the hunter than a hare r 

Prince Primate. 
A man, Sire, when the hunter is a God. 

Buonaparte. 

Sayst thou r Well, be of courage, tho' we 

saw 
Men's backs at Jena. Here indeed we stand 
In pomp of peace and perfect amity, 



56 THE ■ DRAMA OF KINGS. 

The constellated rulers of the earth, 
Forming (God willing) for the years un- 
born 
A prosperous and golden horoscope. 
We miss our cousin Austria. Were he 

here 
Our pageantry were perfect, and we grieve 
To see him sitting sullen far away, 
Like some poor cudgel-player with crack'd 

crown 
Scowling upon the victor in the game ; 
But since he holds aloof persistently, 
And will not be entreated, we will try 
Without his help to mend the tatter'd 

realm, 
And tonic the sick stomach of the time. 
Long centuries of social night indeed 
Have lent to our beloved cousin's eyes 
A certain owl-like hatred of the light, 
And, taking little note how time slips by, 
He in the nineteenth century would pre- 
serve 
The worm-worn charters left by mighty 
Charles. 



BUONAPARTE. 57 

The Holy Roman Empire did its work, 
Flourish' d, decay'd, grew rotten, till at last 
We threw the wither'd fragments (for in 

truth 
They were as stumbling-blocks to all earth's 

Kings) 
To the limbo of all logs — Oblivion. 
O there is much to say, and more to do, 
Ere we can heal earth's wounds, and right 

man's wrong, 
And open up the last long reign of peace. 
Meantime thank God for one most peaceful 

day. 

Enter Louisa #/ Prussia. 

Buonaparte. 

Why, how now, lady ? On thy knees — in 

tears — 
Rise — rise, — this is not well. 

Queen. 

Tho' I should rest 
My forehead in the dust beneath thy feet, 



58 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

Tho' thou shouldst trample this sad face to 

clay, 
I could not fall more low in misery ; 
Yet not for mere self-sorrow do I weep, 
No, not for sorrow, but for pity, Sire, 
Rending my heart with pain unutterable ; 
And not in self-abasement do I kneel, 
No, for I am thy peer, a crowned Queen, 
But pleading, praying, as a mother doth 
For her lost children, interceding now 
For my poor people, who like scattered 

sheep 
Cry homeless up and down the blood-stain'd 

land. 

Buonaparte. 

Rise, lady ! Well ? In sooth there is no 

rest 
For Princes, and by these hysteric tears 
Our peaceful day is broken. Calm thyself! 
Drops that become a lovely woman's face 
Suit ill the proud-fringed eyelids of a 

Queen. 
How can we serve thee ? 



BUONAPARTE. 59 



Oueex [in a low voice). 



O Sire, first and last, 
By being honest with us in our woe, 
By publishing our perfect sum of doom, 
Xor suffering our tortured eyes and ears 
To watch and listen, hoping on in vain, 
While in the secret chambers of thy soul 
New treasons hatch themselves to policy 



Buonaparte. 
Dost thou accuse us of dishonesty ? 



Queen. 

It bodes no good to any in the world, 

When France and Russia from the self-same 

cup 
Together drink " swift death to Germany ! " 



Buonaparte. 
Hearest thou, brother : 



60 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

Czar. 

Ay, I hear, and smile. 
Our gentle sister speaks her heart in ire, 
Forgetful of our love and fellowship 
Proved under Heaven on many a bloody 
field. 

Queen. 

I forget nought. Would that 'twere possible 
To drink forgetfulness of thine and thee. 
What dost thou here at Erfurt by the side 
Of thy sworn foe smiling in amity ? 
What dost thou here on alien German soil 
Sunning thyself beneath the Emperor's eyes, 
When scarce a summer moon hath come and 

gone 
Since thou wert standing at our palace- gate 
Calling all Europe's curse upon his head ? 

Czar. 

Doubtless we called, for those were troublous 

times — 
Forget not also, that we called in vain, 



BUONAPARTE. 61 

That Prussia slept when we would have her 

rise, 
And then too late, when all the world was 

changed, 
Awaken'd up on Jena ! 

Buonaparte. 

Add, moreover : 
Our brother Russia, sick of fretful broils, 
And most peace-loving, takes in honesty 
Our hand and on our loving friendship 

leans ; — 
Unto his eyes we bare the heart of France 
In council ; to none other France shall stoop. 

Queen. 

And ye — ye Princes, idly standing by, 
What is it that ye think, and say, and do r 



Jerome. 

They bless the hand that made and keeps 
them King's. 



62 the drama of kings. 

Saxony. 

Duty and perfect love we owe to France, 
Whereby indeed we live, and thrive, and 

grow. 

Queen. 
Hear them, ye blessed Spirits of the Dead ! 
Dread Kings of Hapsburg, hear ! Thou 

kingly Soul 
Who walkest in the shades of Sans Souci, — 
Hear them ! By France these lacqueys live 

and grow ! 
On France's prop these sweet-pea-Princes 

bloom ! 

Buonaparte. 

Peace, lady — or, if thou must play the shrew, 
Go back to him who sent thee here, to him 
Whom 'tis thy wifely privilege to scold. 

Queen. 
He speaks of peace. Hear him again, ye 

dead ! 
The firebrand of the earth doth speak of 

peace. 



BUONAPARTE. 63 

BUOXAPARTE. 

By Heaven, these women, whose big eyes can 

rain 
So easily, know how to thunder too. 
Lady, get hence, get hence, — call as thou 

wilt, 
The dead are deaf and will not answer 

thee. — 
Old Fritz is snug asleep among his dogs ; 
And even though he heard thee, he would 

groan 
And sleep again — so little did he love 
Life, men and women, the mad world, — and 

wives ; 
And for the rest 'twas only yesterday 
"We took away the same old heathen's sword, 
And now it hangs above our hearth in 

France, 
In memory of one who was a King, 
In token Prussia once begat a man, 
And of a land that was a people once, 
But now hath pined away into a voice. 
Come, brother. 



64 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

Queen. 
Stay. 

Buonaparte. 
How ? 

Queen. 

Stay. I appeal 
To Man against thee ! I cry out to God 
To shame thee ! — if on this unhappy day, 
Taking the hand of thy sworn enemy, 
Thou addest one wrong to the million wrongs 
Heap'd upon Prussia's head by thee and thine. 

Czar. 

peace ; — thou tearest thy patch'd cause the 

more, 
With so intemperate and fierce a tongue 
Crying against anointed majesty ! — 

Queen. 

1 am anointed who cry out to thee — 

I whose fair royalty, though it bleeds so deep, 



BUONAPARTE. 65 

Is worth a thousand empires such as rise 
Based on the bloody tumult of a day ! 

Jerome. 

A kingdom founded by a hunchback ape, 
The puppet of a harlot of the town ! 

Queen. 

Who prates of apes and harlots ? and for- 
sooth 
Of puppets ? What, the King of marionettes, 
Who holds our stolen fiefs upon the Elbe ! 
Emperor of Punchinello ! mighty Lord 
Of Pierrots, fiddlestrings, and dancing-girls ! 

Czar [to Buonaparte). 

Why dost thou smile upon the woman so, 
Folding thine arms and nodding to beat time 
Like one that listens to a merry play ? 

Buonaparte. 

Tho' I have brought the pick and pride of 

France 
As players hither in my retinue, 

F 



66 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

The best of them is dull and we'arisome 

To her whose speech we have just hearken'd 

to. 
Fair Queen, adieu ! We honour thee the more 
For rating us so roundly and so well, 
And love thy luckless Kingdom none the 

less : 
Indeed it shall not perish, — thou shalt learn 
That the Earth's masters can be generous. 

[Exeunt all but the Queen. 

Queen. 

Pitiless ! pitiless ! pitiless ! pitiless ! 
"Earth's masters?" — O thrice miserable Earth 
If these are masters of thy continents ! 
Bodies without a heart ! tyrants whose thrones 
Are based upon unutterable pain, 
One on the frozen ice of the East's despair, 
One on the bloody lava hard and black 
Scatter'd by the volcano of the West ! 
What hope for the poor world if these join 

hands, 
Murder with Avarice, Poison with the Sword, 
Cunning with Hatred, Pride with Cruelty, 



BUONAPARTE. 67 

The heir of Despots with the Parvenu, 
Moloch, whose cold and leaden eyeballs gloat 
On old familiar woes deep as the grave, 
With the quick soul of subtler Lucifer 
Ever devising novel agonies ! 
O Spirit of God, who with mysterious breath 
Dost fashion e'en the will of men-like fiends 
And fiend-like men to obey thee and to work 
Thy strange dim ends, thy doom, thy deep 

revenge, 
Penetrate this day into very Hell, — 
Into the heart of Earth that is as Hell, — 
Work in the council-chamber, in the ears 
Of these arch-tyrants whisper doubts and 

fears, 
Disturb their privy-councils, let them mark 
The viper on each other's smiling lips, 
And while they seek to cheat humanity 
And portion Europe's bleeding body in twain, 
Let each outwit the other, — like two thieves 
Fall at each other's throats,— fiery with greed 
Strike in new hatred at each other's hearts, — 
And struggle, to the laughter of the world, 
Till one or both fall impotent and dead ! 



68 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

[Enter Stein. 
Stein. 
All happy greetings to your Majesty ! 

Queen. 

Ah, faithful friend, such greetings ill befit 
A poor weak woman lost in misery. 
Look, I am weeping — ah, what bitter tears : 
A beggar's, Stein, a beggar's, even such 
As weary women, starving, ragged, sick, 
Shed when they ask (as I have asked) for 
alms. 

Stein. 

Of whom ? of France ? Alms ! of the Em- 
peror ? 

Queen. 

Emperor, Caesar, Satan, what ye will. 

To him, Napoleon, to this Corsican, 

I, I, Louisa, in whose veins there runs 

The royal blood of honest Kings and Queens, 



BUONAPARTE. 69 

Have knelt, cried, pleaded, interceded, 

prayed, 
Conjured like any starving beggar-girl, 
Craving one crust of comfort all in vain. 
He stood here ; he, this man, this parvenu, 
Compound of Scapin and Olympian Jove, 
This monster of the earthquake, this foul 

thing 
Bred of the world's corruption ; here he stood, 
While at his back the trembling puppets 

waited 
Whom with one string he works upon their 

thrones ; 
And as I pleaded for the plunder'd land, 
He, with compassion such as one might cast 
Upon the dead corse of an enemy, 
Mingled with flashes of sheer mockery, 
Did ever and anon, with haughty smile 
Raising his eyebrows, motion to the Czar. 
O friend, we are trampled on in our despair, 
Mocked in our miserable overthrow, 
Robbed, plunder'd, butcher'd, spat upon, 

despised ! 
And now indeed would yonder heartless men, 



70 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

Yonder two fatal powers of frost and fire, 
Portion our fair dominions in two halves, 
Deeming us worse than the intestate dead. 

Stein. 

Madam, be calm : this is the one dark hour 
Ere daybreak. Look to the east ; for there is 
hope. 

Queen. 

What hope ? what hope ? Impoverish'd, 

wounded, sick, 
Penniless, swordless, we are lost past hope ; 
Our last hope died on Jena ; there, indeed, 
Dead Prussia lies, cold, gazing up at God ! 

Stein. 

On Jena Prussia died, — if the strange swoon 
Of Lazarus was dying. Christ went by, 
And Lazarus smiling in his grave-clothes rose, 
Wiser — ah, how much wiser ! — out of death. 

Queen. 
Christ died. The age of miracles is past. 



BUONAPARTE. 71 



Stein. 



Called by new names, Hope, Faith, or 

Liberty, 
Called by a thousand names, by each man's 

mouth, 
Called by the name that man deems loveliest, 
A Spirit walketh still about the Earth 
Compassing resurrection. At this hour 
Strange stirs disturb the darkness of the 

grave, 
Deep aspirations of the cold dark lands 
Ready to burst their swathing clothes and live. 
The Figure comes, I see its shadow loom 
Gigantic in the east — it comes this way, — 
A ghostly liberator comes this way ; 
And when it sayeth " Rise," dead Germany 
Shall spring erect, one life, one heart, one 

soul! 

Queen. 

O Stein ! are these not words to an old song, 
A tune with little meaning which men sing 
To keep their hearts from breaking utterly ? 



72 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

Stein. 

Sure as the earthquake shook the frame of 

France 
And swallow' d up the pallid King and Court, 
Tempest is gathering here. The Tyrol 

trembles, 
Austria is sharpening her sword anew, 
Bavaria groans under the yoke of France : 
All ripens, 'tis the darkness of the cloud 
Full charged with thunder : at the one word 

"Rise!" 
The cloud shall burst, graves open, lightning 

flash, 
Prussia rise smiling, and the Despot fall. 
O lady ! learn to hear and utter forth 
The word men love, the strange word 

" Liberty ! " 
Stand up above thy people (all men's hearts 
Answer the flash of a fair woman's face), 
And in the chosen moment point them on 
With passionate invocation and appeal. 
Not once again let slow suspicion part 
Teuton from Teuton, but may all the powers 



BUONAPARTE. 73 

Heat their slow thunders to a thunderbolt, 
Such as shall shake the fabric of the world. 
England is with us, by us fights the Swede, 
The Turk ne w- threaten' d ranges on our side : 
These one by one shall spring erect to strike 
Like sleepers waken'd by the shriek of " fire." 
On Jena Prussia's feeble body died, 
The peevish frame worn out with long 

disease 
Struck, fell, and ended. There shall rise 

instead 
A MAN, touch'd and miraculously strengthen' d, 
Calm with exceeding knowledge and strange 

truth 
Gain'd only in such utterness of doom, 
And with a light in his inspired eyes 
Before which Buonaparte's soul shall quail. 

Queen. 

Thy voice awakens echoes in my heart 
Like something strange and supernatural. 
Stein, I believe thee ; and thy lips have lent 
New light and inspiration. Yes, yes, yes, 



74 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

No more divided councils, but one heart, 
One soul, one hope, one mighty Germany ! 

Stein. 

So runs the song indeed, your Majesty, 
An old tune and a true one, long forgot 
For new French chansonettes and lute- 
playing. 
Let every Teuton throat but utter it, 
And lo ! the very wind of the strong cry 
Will storm the wondering world. This man, 

this arm 
And head of France, has never yet beheld 
A foeman worthy of a great man's steel ; 
His enemies have been divided nations, 
Kings purblind, selfish, trembling for their 

crowns, 
Statesmen that chose their brief wild hour of 

power 
To strip the shrine and rob the treasury, 
Half-hearted leaders guiding with shut eyes 
Brute-mercenaries clamouring for gold. 
To these the light of the man's lurid Star 



BUONAPARTE. 75 

Hath been a blinding portent and deep awe, 

A superstition paralysing will 

And numbing the strong arm in act to strike. 

Queen. 

Strong words, Stein, yet God knows, so true, 
so true ! 

Stein. 

The legions of the conqueror are weak 
Against the strength of the free Thought of 

Man, 
Which, fluid like the water or the air, 
More subtle than the glistening mercury, 
Inseparable by the sword, coheres 
In mystical divine affinity ; 
And, spite of all that tyranny can plan 
To separate the wondrous elements, 
Gathers its drops and particles anew, 
Imperishable by the laws of God. 
Why see how England, floating on the sea, 
Winding her arm around the Continent, 
Seizes the proud foot of the conqueror, 



76 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

And holds him, while with impotent fierce 

hate 
He striketh at her helmed head in vain. 
See how a few poor peasants with one will, 
Led by a few mad monks with shaven 

crowns, 
Have rent the vulnerable ranks of France 
And scattered them like wind-blown chaff, — 

in Spain. 
The Spirit of Man begins to know its 

strength ; 
That strength once known, it is invincible. 

CHORUS. 

Our eyes are troubled with strange tears, 

Our souls are startled to strange light, 
We stand snow-pale like one that fears 

Loud sounds of earthquake in the night ; 
A mystic voice is in our ears, — 
Afar the River of the years 

Pauses and flashes white — 
And o'er it in the East appears 

Dim gleams of rose-red light. 



BUONAPARTE. 77 



Semi-Chorus II. 



The dark clouds where the set sun lies 

Are parted back like raven hair 
From off a maiden's gentle eyes ; 

Beyond, most lily-like and fair, 
White, shaded soft with azure dyes, 
Heaven opens ; and from out the skies 

Comes one with pensive care — 
Before whose path a white dove flies 

Thro' the rich amber air. 

Semi-Chorus I. 

She hasteneth not, but her cheeks glow, 

Her feet scarce stir, her glances stray 
Oft backward ; while her soft feet sow 

Brightness beneath them as of day, 
And whiteness as of softest snow ; 
And she, thro' locks bright breezes blow, 

Smiles as no mortal may — 
Her feet come hither, but how slow ! 

Her eyes look not this way. 



78 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

A Voice. 

Sing ye a song, right loud and strong, 
To speed her on her way. 

Chorus. 

O thou whose shape at last breaks the dark- 
ness of the Vast, 

Come, O come, 
Dream no longer there afar ; like a swiftly 
shooting star, 

Hasten home ! 

Like waves that murmur white round the re- 
flex of a light 

In the sea, 
Like buds that feel all blind for the warm 
light and the wind, 
Murmur we, 

We see and know thee now by the white im- 
mortal brow ; 

By the eyes 



BUONAPARTE. 79 

Dim from death's divine eclipse ; by the me- 
lancholy lips 

Sweetly wise. 

We have named thee by a name sweeter far 
than Love or Fame, 

Or all breath, 
Thy name is Liberty, and another name of 
thee 

Hath been Death. 

By the blood that we have shed, by the lost 
and by the dead, 

By our wrong, 
By our anguish, by our tears, by the leaden 
load of years, 

Come along:. 



Semi- Chorus I. 

She hears, she hears, with glistening tears, 

She turneth sad and sweet, 
With quick glad breath she hasteneth — 

O God, she cometh fleet. 



So THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

Semi-Chorus II. 

Sing we a song most wild and strong, 
To hasten her blest feet. 

Chorus. 

See the lightning and the rain, see the bloody 
fields of slain, 

See the sword 
That we draw with fierce desire to wreak the 
dreadful ire 

Of the Lord ; 

Hear that other name Revenge, that shall 
wither up and change 

Nature's worst ; 
Hear the judgment God hath written, by 
whose lightning shall be smitten 
Kings accurst ; 

See the wreck of crowns and thrones, watch 
the earthquake, hear the groans 
Of the great, 



BUONAPARTE. Si 

See the prince's golden porch dash'd to ashes, 
mark the Church 
Desolate ; 



Picture wrongs as yet undone, and the red 
fields to be won 

Ere we die ; 
Then O leader of the van, O thrice holy hope 
of man, 

Hear our cry ! 



Semi-Chorus I. 

O wherefore shrinks that Spirit frail, 

Like one that shrinks from something 
dire r 
Her lips are parted, her feet fail 

And falter, and with sudden fire 
She looketh hither while we hail 
Her advent, and quick sighs assail 

Her gentle breast and tire 
Her glad heart : there she lingers pale — 

Half terror, half desire. 
G 



THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 



Semi-Chorus II. 

O dim and faint, with cheeks snow-white, 

She pauses hearkening to our hymn : 
Against the gentle heavenly light, 

With rose-shades on each rounded limb, 
She stands in sudden act of flight 
Bent forward, with her tear-stain' d sight 

Piercing the distance dim ; — 
Below stands One on the world's height, 

And lo ! she looks on him. 



Semi-Chorus I. 

Ah woe, ah woe, who stands below, 
Still, tall, a shape of clay, 

Before whose breath slow lingereth 
That fair shape far away ? 



Semi-Chorus II. 

Be our song deep and strong, 
A thunder-song this day. 



BUONAPARTE. S3 



Chorus. 

O shape that towerest there in the black and 
dreadful air, 

Napoleon ! 
O Man, O crowned King, heark unto us while 
we sing, 

And beware. 



Underneath thy feet this day lie the nations 
cold as clay, 

Cold and dead ; 
But, behold, to bid them " Rise " waiteth one 
with blessed eyes 
Overhead, 



With light shadow in the sea, lo, she pausing 
looks on thee, 

Napoleon ! 
And ye pause there eye to eye, while the 
world rings with the cry 
Of the free. 



84 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

She cometh from the Lord ; with no fire, with 
no sword 

See her rise ! 
She cometh fair and mild, but all things tame 
or wild 

Love her eyes. 

More than all men that are, she perceives thee 
from afar, 

Napoleon ! 
And the reason she doth weep is because she 
pities deep 

Thy sad star. 

For she loveth all that be, even Kings, yea, 
even thee 

And thy seed, 
She would have thee like the rest very beauti- 
ful and blest, 

Being freed. 

And by Man's own hand alone, not by hers 
which smiteth none, 
Napoleon ! 



BUONAPARTE. 

By the might of Man's own plan must the 
traitor against Man 

Be o'erthrown. 

For by her no blood doth flow, and she 
worketh no man woe, 
No man fear ; 
But when all the blood is done, she the 
gentle-hearted one 

Cometh here. 

Yet not till thou art slain will she walk 
upon the plain, 

Napoleon ! 
We must slay and smite thee down, thou 
must perish, she must crown 
What we gain. 

But since thy soul is flame, and o'er fiery 
fierce to tame 

Thy desire, 
Lie thee down and try to cease, while she 
cometh white as peace, 
Bright as fire. 



86 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

Lie thee down and die, and rest, with that 
fierce flame in thy breast, 
Napoleon ! 
And by her whose day is nigh, the grave 
where thou dost lie 

Shall be blest. 

For the dead lands as they rise shall but 
bless thy closed eyes, 
Lying there, 
And thy sleep shall broken be by no voices of 
the sea 

Or the air. 

But when wild winds blow this way, we shall 
think of thy wild day, 
Napoleon ! 
And when hurricane and rain shake the sea 
and sky and plain, 

We shall say : 

" Ev'n as these that rend and rave, was this 
Man upon whose grave 
Poets sing : 



BUONAPARTE. S7 

A wild wind that in wrath clear'd the mists 
before the path 

Of the Spring." 



BUONAPARTE, reading a dispatch. A 
CARDINAL. 

Buonaparte. 

Why, how now r Hath Pope Pius lost his 

wits ? 
Or hath he drunk too deep of that proud 

wine 
Which ever and anon hath made your Popes 
Reel drunken off their seats ? Is the man 

mad, 
That he should howl in our imperial ear 
The flat old thunders that so long have 

turned 
The small-beer kingdoms sour with jeopardy r 
And thou — thou whose dry lineaments look 

white 
With secret brimstone, art thou also mad, 
With front so insolent and tread so proud 
To step into the presence of thy lord ? 



88 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

Cardinal. 

I have no lord but Christ, and under Him 
Christ's Vicar and thy Master. While thy 

soul 
Trusted and honour'd these, we render'd 

thee 
Like trust and honour : but, on this dark 

day, 
When thou dost raise thyself into the seat 
Of God's anointed Priest, I hold thee less 
Than the least man who underneath the 

skies 
Falls on his knee and sues to the Lord 

God. 

Buonaparte. 

So free ! So loud ! Runneth the new song 

thus, 
Lord Cardinal } 

Cardinal. 

E'en thus, and at thy choice 
Love or defiance come, by me, from Rome. 



BUONAPARTE. 89 

BUONAPARTE. 

Have ye thought well of what ye do, who 

name 
Defiance to the great imperial power 
Which made and can unmake ye in a day ? 

Cardinal. 

We have weighed all. We know thy boasted 

strength. 
We who defy the Devil and all his works 
Are not to quail at any lesser hand, 
However evil and however strong. 

Buonaparte. 

Pause there. Now, not to question in the 

dark, 
Open thy mouth and give thy wrongs a 

name. 

Cardinal. 

Read them, Sire ! By his Holiness' own hand 
Writ on the scroll thou holdest. I am come 
If thou wouldst question any issue there. 



90 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

Buonaparte. 

I question every scratch, Lord Cardinal ! 
Theme, title, every word and character, 
First scrawl to last, down to the last round 

oath 
Whereby thy moon-struck master styles him- 
self 
Christ's Vicar and my peer. He lectures me 
As tho' I were a schoolboy and high dunce 
Of all earth's dunces ! Let him look to it, 
Or by St. Peter and his rusty Key, 
That turns so slowly in the lock of Heaven, 
This hand shall set the foolscap on his head 
And fix. a scarecrow on the heights of Rome 
For all the world to point at passing by ! 

Cardinal. 

Blaspheme not, lest God's Angels strike thee 
down. 

Buonaparte. 

God's Angels never came to the thin squeak 
Of trebly dotard and degenerate Rome. 



BUONAPARTE. 91 

Return to him who sent thee ; tell him so. 
Tell him, moreover, as thou lovest him, 
Some further truths his tipsy soul forgets. 
Who set him on his semi-regal seat ? 
Who propt up his stale scarecrow of a creed 
Again within the hollow Vatican r 
Who by a lifted finger can and will 
Consign both Pope and Rome to sudden 

doom, 
Early oblivion, and the parting curse 
Of all the Rome-sick lands of Christendom ? 
Ask him these questions, and be answer'd 

straight, 
By bloodless cheek, wild eye, and quivering 

lips 
That flutter with the name they fear to 

speak. 

Cardinal. 

One Name alone hath power to shake him 

so ; 
And 'tis a Name which, spoken audibly, 
Shall yet shake thee too, even were thy 

throne 



92 THE DRAMA OF KINGS, 

Rooted as deep as the slow fires of Hell, 
And towering high as the proud arch of 

Heaven. 
Napoleon, beware the wrath of God ! 
Farewell ! 

Buonaparte. 

Stay ! — Stay, old man ; thou shalt not stir, 
Till thou hast heard our message to the end. 
Now, mark me, for I swear by Peter's pence 
I am resolved. Your Pope, in this same 

scroll, 
Strings grievance upon grievance garru- 
lously, 
Thus ending, "What Rome was of old, Rome 

is, 
The mistress of the conscience of the world, 
Spiritual sovereign of all human Kings, 
And temporally subject unto none." 
Further, this Pope, this apostolic echo, 
Yielding no jot of any boon we crave, 
Forgetful of his predecessor s doom, 
Vows excommunication and God's wrath, 



BUONAPARTE. 93 

Curse by bell, book, and candle, all the old 
Stale stuff of necromancy, if our foot 
Encroaches further on the Papal soil, 
If with our impious and heedless sword 
We still imperil Holy Church's power, 
Her fame, her name, her aim in Christendom. 
Is this so ? Have I phrased your thunder 
right ? 

Cardinal. 

All these things have we written down for 
truth. 

Buonaparte. 

Good. Listen now to me. Your Pope 

and I 
Need waste no specious lying terms to 

mince 
The matter of this creed whereby he swears : 
First, friend, 'tis a bald theologic lie, 
And next, a moral falsehood long detected, 
And last, a practical impediment 
To every step the blind old world would 

take 



94 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

To Freedom. Well, what then ? I knew that 

well, 
I knew by heart the nature of King Log, 
When, that wild day in France, I thrust my 

hand 
And pluckt him from the Fire, and set him up 
There where he stands, my ninepin of a 

Pope 
To trundle over with a cannon-ball ! 
I did not think the world of human souls 
Was ready yet for the keen mountain air 
Of Freedom ; I believed they must be bent 
And driven ; and I saw in Graybeard 

Church 
The rusty fetters fitted for my purpose, 
St. Peter's, fasten'd as an ankle-chain 
About the stumbling Soul ages ago 
To keep its stray feet from the mountain tops. 
Wherefore I said, " King Log shall serve my 

turn, 
Shall sit and scatter unction as he lists, 
And I will sprinkle o'er the continents 
Cardinals, bishops, priests, all lesser logs, 
To fool the people with their feast-day shows, 



BUONAPARTE. 95 

And hold the wild geese back from anarchy." 
So said, so done. Pope Pius ruled at Rome, 
By grace of God and Buonaparte ; France 
Took back her dolls and idols ; the old door 
Of knowledge creak'd and closed again on 

Man ; 
And, used as scarecrows on earth's harvest 

fields, 
Your vestments frighten'd off the last black 

birds 
Of Revolution. In the lull I throve, 
Giving men greater gifts than liberty, — 
Food, power, and glory, — till, behold, my 

rule 
Took form and consecration, shot its 

branches 
O'er the green western world, slew one by 

one 
Its enemies half hearted, and this day, 
Here in Germania, yonder over France, 
North, south, east, west, a mighty sword- 
sweep round, 
The Empire shines, great heart of Christen- 
dom ; 



96 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

Shines, still expanding by the law of growth, 

Larger and richer, taking and giving forth 

Light, like the sun at mid-day. Even now, 

At our full noon of glory, rises up 

King Log, my creature, casting as he stands 

The shadow six-foot long of his own grave, 

And crying, " I am greater — I by grace 

Of God supremer — I by sun and star, 

The light, the soul, the head of Christendom ! " 

Therefore I answer, " To thy puddle, Log ! 

The frogs will worship thee with their old 

croak ; 
But, meantime, lest thou perish quite, be- 
gone — 
Out of my sunshine ! " 

Cardinal. 

O proud man, beware ! 
Innumerable evil stars like thine 
Have shot across the welkin and been lost, 
Empire on empire hath been heap'd to dust. 
Century hath been crusht on century, — 
But Rome abides imperishably fair, 
Based on the crystal Rock of holy thought. 



BUONAPARTE. 97 

The Figure throned on the blessed Seat 
Hath changed as the swift generations 

change ; 
But still the Seat stands, and the Rock en- 
dures, 
And ever cometh God's Hierophant 
To reign there, flashing thence mysterious 

light 
Into the consciences of all earth's Kings. 
Against thy sword the Figure sitting there 
Doth interpose the incorporeal Soul, 
A thing thou canst not slay by any steel, 
A shape which has abided from the first 
And shall abide when thou art back to dust. 
When thou wouldst trench on the divine 

domain, 
And be a second conscience to the world, 
God's Vicar, perishable form and sign 
Of the imperishable faith of man, 
Doth in the very Soul's name bid thee pause. 

Buonaparte. 

Thou comest a few centuries too late 
To interpose against the might of Kings 
pi 



98 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

A shadow, such a shadow, the mere ghost 
Seen by a shivering coward in the dark. 
Old man, the world and I have wholly lost 
Our faith in spectres, and philosophers 
Aver this thing ye christen Soul, to awe 
The world by, is but lustre given out 
By bodies, like the phosphorescent light 
Shed forth by certain jellies in the sea. 
Be that pure fiction or a dim-seen truth 
We fear no terror incorporeal, 
Which, like your own in Rome, abides 

unseen, 
Silent and physically impotent. 

Cardinal. 
Is this thine answer to the Pope of Rome ? 

Buonaparte. 

No ! — Tell God's Vicar, as he styles himselfj 
That when in guise of priestly sanctity 
And in humility he seeks the ear 
Of Buonaparte, when he comes in love 



BUOXA PARTE. 99 

Grateful for service and for very life, 
We will incline our will unto his wish, 
And as our equal meet and cherish him ; 
But coming with toy-thunderbolt in hand, 
With haughty looks and spiritual pride, 
He shall be cast again into the fire 
From which we snatch'd his body long ago. 
In brief, another word such as these words 
That we have read and thou hast echoed, 
And we will seize him in the heart of Rome, 
And hale him screaming up and down the 

earth 
A captive fastened to the fiery heels 
~ Of conquest, and of all his Cardinals 
Will make a bonfire that shall gladden Man 
Where'er the false and juggling creed of 

Rome 
Hath cast its shadow on the human heart ! 

Cardinal. 

These mad words will I straightway bear to 

Rome, 
And be thou sure that there shall come full 

soon 



ioo THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

A direr, darker, and less drunken hour, 
When thou, no longer mad with fancied 

height 
And stolen glory, shalt bewail the day 
When thou did'st raise thy impious eyes so 

high, 
And cast aside in recklessness of power 
Thy deepest strength — Rome's prayers and 

silent aid. 

Buonaparte. 

Go! 

Cardinal. 

I obey, leaving God's curse behind, 
To trouble thee in thy supremest hour. 

CHORUS. 
Semi-Chorus I. 
Echo the curse ! 

Semi-Chorus II. 

Ah nay, ah nay ! 
Curse not, but rather wait and pray. 



BUONAPARTE. 

Semi-Chorus I. 
Echo the curse ! 

Semi-Chorus II. 

O echo not 
That which shameth human thought — 
'Tis so easy and so vain 
To curse, and all may curse again ! 

Semi-Chorus I, 
Echo the curse ! 

Semi-Chorus II. 

Away, away! 
Curse not, but turn to God and pray. 
What would ye curse ? The wintry snow 
The rain that falls, the winds that blow, 
All mighty things that come and go ; — 
Your curses cannot cast them low. 

Semi-Chorus I. 
What shall avail, if this be so ? 



i'o2 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

Semj-Chorus II. 

It hath been written from the first 
He who deals curses shall be curst ; 
Strike, but blaspheme not ; overcast 
King, Pope, and Idol, first and last ; 
Strike more, curse less ; for ah, man's curse 
Wearies the soul-sick universe. 

Semi-Chorus I. 

Echo the curse ! Lo, where he stands, 
Casting o'er many weary lands 
Darkness like blood ; before his frown 
And the fierce brightness of his crown 
All withers ! — curse him ! Drag him down ! 

Voices. 
Shall not man's curses drag him down? 

Semi-Chorus II. 

Never — O hush and cease ! 
Wait, pray, and be at peace. 



BUONAPARTE. 103 



A Voice. 

Peace 



Semi-Chorus II. 

Is God a tempest that ye call so loud \ 

Is God a whirlwind or a thunder-cloud r — 

Is God an avalance that a mere cry 

May loosen from the cold heights of the 

sky, 
To fall at your wild will and crush the 

proud ? 

Nay, He is none of these. But soon or late, 

Being the dark strength of inadequate 

And seeming-vanquish'd things, He works his 

will : 
Mad words avail not. He is deep and still, 
Subtle as Love and sure of foot as Fate. 



He is the gentle force destroying wrong 
As water weareth stone ; secret, yet strong ; 



104 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

Mighty, yet merciful ; He is the dew 

Round the King's feet, suck'd up into the 

blue, 
Grown to the thunderbolt whose flash ere long 

Strikes the King dead. But pray ye loud or 

low, 
He will not hasten help or lessen woe — 
He slayeth all things by the secret law 
Through which He made them and from which 

they draw 
Light, strength, and life ; all these being gone, 

they go. 

If it will cheer your hearts while ye wait here, 
Pray, but of cursing comes no sort of cheer. 
God works within all wrongs, and wastes in- 
deed 
The secret force on which they live and feed ; 
This being withdrawn, they die and disappear. 

Semi-Chorus I. 

Shall we then wait with folded hands 
Impotent, while the tyrant stands 



BUONAPARTE. 105 

Lord of the earth and air and brine — 
Shall we then wait and make no sign ? 

A Voice. 
Echo Rome's curse ! 

Semi-Chorus I. 

Yea, — at his frown 
And at the brightness of his crown 
All withers ; curse him, drag him down — 

A Voice. 
Shall not our curses drag him down ? 

Semi-Chorus II. 

Nay, but arise, if so your hearts aspire, 
Arise and strike him down with sword and 

fire. 
God gave ye hands for that, God made ye 

strong, 
Body and soul, to rise and right your wrong ; 
But on the burning flame of your desire 



i.o6 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

Fear falls like salt. What shall avail your 

sighs 
And imprecations if ye will not rise, 
Lords of your living wills and hands of might ? 
Man knows no wrong but man himself may 

right, 
Being a Titan who sits down and cries 

Like a sick weary child upon the ground, 
And knoweth not his strength, and gazeth 

round 
On water, earth, and heaven, with blind sick 

stare : 
Though of a glorious kingdom he is heir, 
And all things free await to see him crown'd. 

Echo Rome's curse ? O weary sons of man, 
Echo no more as any cavern can — 
For have ye not been echoing day by day 
Whatever idle sound hath blown your way, 
Gentle or awful, since the world began ? 

God gave ye living wills for other aim, 
Voices for other sounds than moans of blame, 



BUONAPARTE. ■ 107 

Hands for more use than folding on the 

breast ; 
Daily the sun goes down into the west- 
How long shall it go down upon your shame r 

For if on any day ye would be free, 

If any day with one voice like the sea 

Ye do demand your freedom every one, — 

Utter the word, 'tis given, all is done, 

And ye share freedom with all things that be. 

But now ye yield to wild divided cries — 
Broken abroad and echoing any lies ; — 
A thousand feeble voices go and come, 
But to your own souls' utterance ye are 

dumb, — 
For that all wait, — earth, ocean, air, and 

skies : 

All lesser things that flit 'tween pole and pole, 
All liberated things that leap and roll 
Unfetter'd under yonder heaven, await 
The one free voice triumphant over Fate, 
The one free voice of Man, the Life, the Soul. 



ioS THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

Semi-Chorus I. 
Are we not bound ? 

Semi-Chorus II. 

Ye are not bound ; 
Ye cry, ye follow empty sound, 
This way and that way, round and round. 



Semi-Chorus I. 

Have we not sought and never found ? 
Are we not chain'd and undertrod 
Bv God and Man ? 



Semi-Chorus II. 

By Man, not God — 
By your own hands, by your own will, 
Are your bonds fashion'd, and no skill 
But yours can break them. Slaves ! still griev- 
ing, 



BUONAPARTE. 109 

Impotent, trembling, self-deceiving, 
Over the woes of your own weaving ! 
I Tull'd by false creeds and moral lies, 
Changeful as are the April skies, 
At all times weak and never wise ! 
Standing beside Time's running River, 
Seeing your own shades there for ever, 
Knowing them not for what they be, 
And blaming them most bitterly ! 
O hush, blaspheme no more — your curse 
Wearies the soul-sick universe : 
Curses of every creed that Man 
Hath built to God since time began, 
From Israel's first curse of power 
Down to the curse of Rome this hour. 
Hush, let God be ; the voice ye raise 
Hinders His work in secret ways ; 
Strike ye at wrong with all your might, 
And if ye fail to set it right, 
Pray if ye list — no prayer is ill ; 
But curse not what ye cannot kill : — 
Leave it to God, whose law alone 
Wears it, as water weareth stone. 



THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 



Buonaparte. 

The cup is overflowing. Pour, pour yet, 
My Famulus — pour with free arm-sweep still, 
And when the wine is running o'er the brim, 
Sparkling with golden bubbles in the sun, 
I will stoop down and drink the full great 

draught 
Of glory, and as did those heroes old 
Drinking ambrosia in the happy isles, 
Dilate at once to perfect demigod. 
Meantime, I feast my eyes as the wine runs 
And the cup fills. Fill up, my Famulus ! 
Pour out the precious juice of all the earth, 
Pour with great arm-sweep, that the world 

may see. 



O Famulus — O Spirit — O good Soul, 
Come close to me and listen — curl thyself 
Up in my breast— let us drink ecstasy 
Together ; for the charm thou taughtest me 
Is working like slow poison in the veins 



BUONAPARTE. m 

Of the great nations : each, a wild-beast 

tamed, 
Looks mildly in mine eyes and from my hand 
Eats gently ; and this day I speak the charm 
To Russia, and, behold ! the crafty eyes 
Blink sleepily, while on the fatal lips 
Hovers the smile of appetite half-fed, 
Half-hungry : he being won, all else is won, 
And at our feet, our veritable slave, 
Lies Europe. Whisper now, Soul of my Soul, 
Since we have won this Europe with the sword, 
How we shall portion it to men anew. 

First, in the centre of the West, I set 

My signet like a star, and on a rock 

Base the imperial Throne : seated whereon, 

The royal crown of France upon my head, 

At hand the iron crown of Lombardy, 

And in my sceptre blended as a sign 

The hereditary gems of Italy, 

Spain, Holland, I shall see beneath my feet 

My puppets sit with strings that reach my 

hand : 
Murat upon the throne of Italy, 



ii2 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

Jerome upon new-born Westphalia, 

Louis the lord of Holland, and perchance 

A kinsman in the Prussian dotard's place ; 

And, lower yet, still puppets to my hand, 

Saxony, Wiirtemberg, Bavaria, 

The petty principalities and powers, 

All smiling up in our hot thunderous 

air; — 
And all the thrones, the kingdoms, and the 

powers 
That break to life beneath them, murmuring 
"Hail, King of Europe — Emperor of the 

West." 

Thus far. Still farther ? Driven to the 

East, 
First by fond cunning, afterwards by blows, 
The Russian's eyes bloodshot with greed will 

watch, 
While still our flood-tide inexhaustible 
Of Empire washes to the Danube, rolls 
Into the Baltic, and with one huge wave 
Covers the plains of Poland. Then at last 
The mighty Empires of the East and West 



BUONAPARTE. 113 

Shall clash together in the final blow, 
And that which loses shall be driven on 
To lead the heathen on in Asia, 
And that which hurls the other to such doom 
Shall be the chosen Regent of the World. 

Shall this be so, O Spirit ? Pour, O pour — 
Yea, let me feast mine eyes upon the wine, 
Albeit I drink not. See ! — Napoleon, 
Waif from the island in the southern sea, 
Sun to whom all the Kings of the earth are 

stars, 
Sword before which all earthly swords are 

straws, 
Child of the Revolution, crown and head, 
Heart, soul, arm, King, of all Humanity. 

O Famulus — in God's name keep my soul 
From swooning to vain-glory. I believe 
God, not the other, sends thee, that thy mouth 
May fill me with a message for the race, 
And purge the peevish and distemper'd world 
Of her hereditary plague of Kings. 
For Man, I say, shall in due season grow 
I 



Ii4 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

Back to the likeness that he wore at first, 
One mighty nation peopling the green earth, 
One equal people with one King and head, 
One Kingdom with one Temple, and therein 
No priest, no idol, no dark sacrifice, 
But spheric music and the dreamy light 
Of heaven's azure and the changeless stars. 
The curse of earth hath been the folly of 

peace 
Under vain rulers, so dividing earth, 
That twenty thousand kings of Lilliput 
Strutted and fretted heaven and teased the 

time, 
Kept nature's skin for ever on the sting 
Like vermin, and perplex'd humanity 
With petty pangs and peevish tyranny, 
While the soul sickened of obscure disease, 
And the innumerable limbs of state 
Moved paralysed, and half earth's system 

dead. 
Came Revolution like avenging fire ; 
And in the red flash miserable men 
Beheld themselves and wondered — saw their 

Kings 



BUONAPARTE. 115 

Still strutting lilliputian in the glare, — 
And laugh' d till heaven rung, — gave one 

fierce look 
To heaven, and rose. Outraged Columbia 
Breath'd o'er the sea, and scorch'd the in- 
solent cheek 
Of Albion. Albion paled before the flame. 
The darken'd embers faded in the West, 
And all was still again ; when one mad 

morn 
Men wakening, saw the heights of France 

afire ! 
Earth shook to her foundation, and the light 
Illumed the hemispheres from west to east, 
And men that walk beneath and under us, 
Holding their heads to other stars, beheld 
The glory flaming from the underworld. 
The little Kings of Europe, lily-pale, 
Scream' d shrill to one another. Germany 
In her deep currents of philosophy 
Mirror'd the fiery horror. Russia groaned, 
Sheeted in snows that took the hue of blood 
Under the fierce reflection. Italy, 
Spain and the Tyrol, wild Helvetia, 



n6 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

Caught havoc ; and even on the white Eng- 
lish crags 
A few strong spirits, in a race that binds 
Its body in chains and calls them Liberty, 
And calls each fresh link Progress, stood 

erect 
With faces pale that hunger'd to the light. 
Then, like a hero in his anguish, burnt 
Poor gentle Louis, whom the stars destined 
To be a barber and who was a King, 
And as he flamed and went like very straw, 
Earth shriek'd and fever'd France grew 
raving mad. 

Pass o'er the wild space of delirium, 
When France upon her stony bed of pain 
Raved, screamed, blasphemed, was medicined 

with blood, 
Forgot all issues and the course of time ; 
And come to that supremer, stiller hour 
When, facing these fierce wasps of Kings 

who nocked 
To sting the weary sufferer to death, 
I rose and stood beside her, drove them back 



BUONAPARTE. 117 

So ! with a sword-sweep. Those were merry 

days, 
My Spirit ! These were spring days, winds of 

war 
Sharp-blowing, but the swallow on the way 
Already bringing summer from the south ! 
Then one by one I held these little Kings 
Between my fingers and inspected them 
Like curious insects, while with buzz and 

squeak 
Their tiny stings were shooting in and out ; 
And how I laugh' d 

To think such wretched vermin had so long 
Tortured unhappy Man, and to despair 
Driven him afrd his through infinite ways of 

woe, 
When with one sweep of his great arm, one 

blow 
Of his sharp palm, he might annihilate 
Such creatures by the legion and in sooth 
Exterminate the breed. O Spirit of Man ! 
A foolish Titan ! foolish now as then, 
Guided about the earth like a blind man 
By any hand that leads, 



n8 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

And then and now unconscious of a frame 
Whose strength, into one mighty effort 

gathered, 
Might shake the firmament of heaven itself! 

Well, we have done this service. We have 

freed 
Earth from its pest of kings, so that they crawl 
Powerless and stingless ; we have medicined 
Desperate disease with awful remedies ; 
And lo, the mighty Spirit of mankind 
Has stagger' d from the sick-bed to his feet, 
And feebly totters, picking darken'd steps, 
And while I lead him on scarce sees the sun, 
But questions feebly " whither ? " Whither ? 

Indeed 
I am dumb, and all earth's voices are as dumb — 
God is not dumber on his throne. In vain 
I would peer forward, but the path is black. 
Ay, — whither ? 

O what peevish fools are mortals, 
Tormented by a raven on each shoulder, 
" Whither r" and " wherefore ?" Shall I stand 
and gape 



BUONAPARTE. 119 

At heaven, straining eyes into the tomb, 
Like some purblind philosopher or bard 
Asking stale questions of the Infinite 
Dumb with God's secret r questioning the 

winds, 
The waves, the stars, all things that live and 

move, 
All signs, all augurs r Never yet hath one 
Accorded answer. "Whither?" Death 

replies 
With dusky smile. " Wherefore r " the echoes 

laugh 
Their " wherefore ? wherefore r " Of the 

time unborn, 
And of the inevitable law, no voice 
Bears witness. The pale Man upon the 

Cross 
Moan'd, — and beheld no further down the 

Void 
Than those who gather' d round to see him 

die. 

Ay, — but the Soul, being weather-wise, can 
guess 



120 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

The morrow by the sunset, can it not ? 
And there are signs about the path whereon 
I guide the foolish Titan, that imply 
Darkness and hidden dangers. All these last 
I smile at ; but, O Soul within my Soul, 
'Tis he, the foolish Titan's self, I fear ; 
For, though I have a spell upon him now, 
And say it, and he follows, any morn 
(Awakening from his torpor as he woke 
One bloody morn in Paris and went wild), 
He may put out his frightful strength again, 
And with one mighty shock of agony 
Bring down the roof of Empire on my head. 
He loves me now, and'to my song of war 
Murmurs deep undertone, and as he goes 
Fondles the hand that leads ; but day by 

day 
Must I devise new songs and promises, 
More bloody incantation, lest he rouse 
And rend me. Oftentimes it seems he leads, 
I follow, — he the tyrant, I the slave, — 
And it, perchance, were better had I paused 
At Amiens, nor with terrible words and 

ways 



BUONAPARTE. 121 

Led him thus far, still whispering in his ear 
That he at last shall look on " Liberty." 

Liberty ? Have I lull'd him with a Lie ? 
Or shall the Titan Spirit of Man be led 
To look again upon the face of her, 
Llis first last love, a spirit woman-shaped, 
Whom in the sweet beginning he beheld, 
Adored, loved, lost, pursued, whom still in 

tears 
He yearns for, in whose name alone all 

Kings 
Have led and guided him a space and 

throve, 
Denying whom all Kings have died in turn, 
AVhose memory is perfume, light and dream, 
Whose hope is incense, music, bliss, and 

tears, 
To him whose great heart with immortal 

beat 
Measures the dark march of humanity. 
I do believe this shape he saw and loved 
Was but a phantasm, unsubstantial, strange, 
A vision never to be held and had, 



122 . THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

A spectral woman ne'er to be enjoyed ; 
But such a thought whisper'd into his ear 
Were rank as blasphemy cried up at God. 
The name is yet a madness, a supreme 
Ecstasy and delirium ! All things 
That cry it move the tears into the eyes 
Of the sad Titan. Echoed from the heights 
Of France, it made him mad, and in his rage 
He tore at earth's foundations. Evermore 
He turns his suffering orbs upon the dark, 
Uplifts his gentle hands to the chill stars, 
Pauses upon the path, and in the ear 
Of him who leadeth cries with broken voice, 
" How long, how long, how long ? " 

And unto him, 
This Titan, I, supreme of all the earth, 
Am but a pigmy (let me whisper it!) ; 
And I have won upon him with strange lies, 
And he has suffer' d all indignities, 
Bonds, chains, a band to blindfold both his 

eyes, 
Patient and meek, since I have sworn at last 
To lead him to the trysting-place where waits 



BUONAPARTE. 123 

His constant love and most immortal bride. 
Still in mine ears he murmureth her name, 
And follows. I have led him on through fire, 
Blood, darkness, tears, and still he hath been 

tame, 
Tho' ofttimes shrinking from things horrible, 
And on and on he follows even now, 
Blindfold, with slower and less willing feet — 
I fear with slower and less willing feet — 
And still I lead, thro' lurid light from 

heaven, 
Whither I know not. "Whither!" Oftentimes 
My great heart fails, lest on some morn we 

reach 
That portal o'er which flaming Arch is writ, 
" All hope abandon ye who enter here ! " 
And he, perceiving he hath been befool'd, 
Will cast me from him with his last fierce 

breath 
Down thro' the gate into the pit of doom. 

Meantime he follows smiling. O Famulus ! 
Could I but dream that she, the shape he 
seeks, 



124 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

Whom he names Liberty, and gods name 

Peace, 
Were human, could inhale this dense dark 

air, 
Could live and dwell on earth and rear the 

race, 
'Twere well, — for by Almighty God I swear 
I would find out a means to join their 

hands 
And bless them, and abide their grateful 

doom. 
But she he seeks I know to be a dream, 
A vision of the rosy morning mist, 
A creature foreign to the earth and sea, 
Ne'er to be look'd upon by mortal soul 
Out of the mortal vision. Wherefore still 
I fear the Titan. I can never appease 
His hungry yearning wholly. He will bear 
No future chains, no closer blindfolding, 
And if a fatal whisper reach his ear, 
I and all mine are wholly wreck' d and lost. 

Yet is this Titan old so weak of wit, 

So senile-minded though so huge of frame, 



BUONAPARTE. 125 

So deaf to warning voices when they cry, 
That, should no angel light from heaven and 

speak 
The mad truth in his ear, he will proceed 
Patiently as a lamb. He counteth not 
The weary years ; his eyes are shut indeed 
With a half smile, to see the mystic face 
Pictured upon his brain ; only at times 
He lifteth lids and gazeth wildly round, 
Clutching at the cold hand of him that 

guides, — 
But with a whisper he is calm'd again, 
Relapsing back into his gentle dream. 

he is patient, and he will await 
Century after century in peace, 

So that he hears sweet songs of her he seeks, 
So that his guides do speak to him of her, 
So that he thinks to clasp her in the end. 

The end ? Sweet sprite, the end is what I 

fear — 
If I might live for ever, Famulus ! — 
Why am I not immortal and a god ? 

1 have caused tears enough, as bitter tears 



126 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

As ever by the rod divine were struck 
Out of this rock of earth. for a spell 
Wherewith to cheat old Death, whose feet I 

hear 
Afar off, for I hate the bony touch 
Of hands that change the purple for the 

shroud ! 
Yet I could go in peace (since all must go) 
So that my seed were risen and in its eyes 
I saw assurance of imperial thoughts, 
Strength, and a will to grasp the thunderbolt 
I leave unhurl'd beside the Olympian throne. 
Ah God, to die, and into the dark gloom 
Drag that throne with me, to the hollow laugh 
Of the awakening Titan ! All my peers 
Are ciphers, all my brethren are mere 

Kings 
Of the old fashion, only strengthen'd now 
By my strong sunshine ; reft of that, they 

die, 
Like sunflowers in the darkness. Death, old 

Death, 
Touch me this day, or any dark day soon, 
And I and mine are like the miser's hoard, 



BUONAPARTE. 127 

A glorious and a glittering pile of gold 
Changed to a fluttering heap of wither' d 
leaves. 

This must not be. No, I must have a child. 
I must be firm and from my bed divorce 
The barren woman. Furthermore, to link 
My Throne with all the lesser thrones of earth, 
I must wed the seed of Kings. Which seed, 

which child ? 
Which round ripe armful of new destiny ? 
Which regal mould for my imperial issue r 
Thine, fruitful house of Hapsburg ? Russia, 

thine ? 
The greater, not the lesser. I must wed 
Seed of the Czar, and so with nuptial rites 
Unite the empires of the East and West. 

Fill, fill, my Famulus, the golden cup 

I thirst for ; all the peril as I gaze 

Flath faded. I no more with fluttering lips 

Cry "Whither ?"• but with hands outstretch'd 

I watch 
Rubily glistening glory. It shall thrive ! 



128 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

King of the West, sowing the seed of Kings ! 
First of the Empire of the Golden Age, 
The sleeping Titan, and the quiet Sea ; 
Light of the Lotus and all mortal eyes, 
Whose orbit nations like to heliotropes 
Shall follow with lesser circle and sweet sound ! 

CHORUS. 

Semi-Chorus I. 

Form of her the Titan full of patience 
Sees amid the darkness of the nations ; 
Voice of her whose sound in the beginning 
Came upon him desolate and sinning ; 
Face of her and grace of her whose gleaming 
Soothes his gentle spirit into dreaming ; 
Spirit whom the Titan sees above him ! 

Semi-Chorus II. 

Gentle eyes that shine and seem to love him ! 
Tender touch, the touch of her quick fingers, 
Touch that reach'd his soul and burns and 

lingers ; 
Breath of her, and scent of her, and bliss of 

her; 



BUONAPARTE. 129 

Dream of her, and smile of her, and kiss of 

her! 
Come again, and speak, arid bend above him, 
Spirit that came once and seemed to love him. 

A Voice. 
How long, how long ? 

Semi-Chorus I. 

Courage, great heart and strong, 
Break not, but beat low chime 
To the dark flow of Time ; 
Follow the path foot-worn, 
Sad night and dewy morn, 
Under the weary sun 
Follow, O mighty one ; 
Under dim moon and star ! 

A Voice. 
Whither ? How far, how far \ 

Semi-Chorus I. 

Spirit of the fathomless abysses, 
Spirit that he looked upon and misses, 
K 



130 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

Free and fair and perfect, more than human, 
Bringing love and peace-gifts like a woman ; 
Come unto him, listen to his pleading. 

Semi-Chorus II. 

Mark his patience, hear his gentle inter- 
ceding ; 

O'er mountain upon mountain left behind 
thee, 

He hath cheerly climb'd in vain to find 
thee : 

Wild waters he hath cross'd, wild sea and 
river, 

All countries he hath traversed, faithful ever, 

Ever hoping, ever waiting, never seeing. 

Chorus. 

Spirit "seen in some long-darken'd being, 
Spirit that he saw at the world's portal, 
Saw, and knew, and loved, and felt immortal, 
Spirit that he wearies for and misses, 
Answer from the fathomless abysses ! 



BUONAPARTE. 131 

A Voice. 
How long, how long ? 

Semi-Chorus I. 

Courage, O Titan strong ! 
Courage, from place to place 
Still follow the voice and the face ! 

A Voice. 
Whither ? 

Second Voice. 
O hither ! 

First Voice. 

Whither ? 

Semi-Chorus I. 

Voice of her he follows in dumb pleasure, 

Camest thou from the earth or from the azure ; 

Camest thou from the pastures on the moun- 
tains, 

From the ocean, from the rivers, from the 
fountains, 



132 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

From the vapours blowing o'er him while he 

hearkens, 
From the ocean hoar that beats his feet and 

darkens, 
From the star that on the sea-fringe melts 

and glistens? 

Semi-Chorus II. 
O homeless voice, he maddens as he listens, 
O voice divine, his wild lips part asunder ; 
He speaketh, and his words are a low 
thunder. 

A Voice. 
Whither, O whither ? 

Second Voice. 

Hither ! 

First Voice. 

Whither ? Wherefore, while I wait in patience, 

Mock her voice, O voices of the nations ; 

Wherefore by night and day, 

Where'er my slow feet stray, 

Trouble all hours with wild reverberations. 



BUONAPARTE. 133 

Mountain winds, ye name her name unto me 
Flowing rivers glance and thrill it thro' me ! 

Earth, water, air, and sky, 

Name her as I go by ! 
With her dim ghost the floating clouds pur- 
sue me ! 

All of these have seen her face and love her, 
Earth beneath and heaven that bends above 
her ; 

The rain-wreck and the storm 
Mimic the one fair form, 
The whirlwind knows her name and cries it 
over. 

Flowers are sown by her bright foot wherever 
They are flashing past by mere and river ; 
Birds in the forest stir, 
Singing mad praise of her; 
All green paths know her, tho' she flies for 
ever. 

Chorus. 

Joy of wind and wave and cloud and blossom, 
Pause at last and fall upon his bosom ! 



134 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

First Voice. 

None behold her twice, but having conn'd her, 
While she flashes past with feet that wander, 
Remember the blest gleam, 
And grow by it and dream, 
And fondle the sweet memory and ponder. 

All have known her, and yet none possess 
her; 

None behold her, yet all things caress her ; 
The warmth of her white feet, 
Where it doth fall so sweet, 

Abides for ever there, and all things bless her. 

Faster than the prophesying swallow, 
Fast by wood and sea and hill and hollow, 

Sought by all things that be, 

But most of all by me, 
She nieth none know whither, and I follow. 

Semi-Chorus I. 

O wherefore, radiant one, 
Under the moon and sun, 
Glimmer away ? 



BUONAPARTE. 

Second Voice. 

Here on the heights I stay 
Come hither. 

First Voice. 
Whither \ 

Second Voice. 



O hither 



Chorus. 



Form of her the Titan full of patience 
Sees amid the darkness of the nations ; 
Voice of her whose song in the beginning 
Came upon him desolate and sinning ; 
Face of her and grace of her whose gleaming 
Soothes his gentle spirit into dreaming ; 
Touch of her, the touch of her quick fingers, 
Touch that reach'd his soul and burns and 

lingers ; 
Breath of her, and scent of her, and bliss of 

her, 
Dream of her, and gleam of her, and kiss of 

her ! 



136 



THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 



Soul beyond his soul, yet ever near it, 
His heart's home, and haven of his spirit ; 
Joy of wind and wave and cloud and blossom. 
Pause at last, and fall upon his bosom ! 



END OF THE FIRST PART. 



CHORIC INTERLUDE 

THE TITAN. 



CHORIC INTERLUDE. 

Chorus. 

Strange hands are passed across our eyes, 
Before our souls strange visions rise 

And dim shapes come and flee. 
The mists of dream are backward roll'd — 
As from a mountain we behold 

What is, and yet shall be. 

A Voice. 

Speak ! while the depths of dreams unfold, 
What is it that ye see ? 

Semi-Chorus I. 

'Tis vision. Lo, before us stands, 
Casting his shade on many lands, 



140 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

The mighty Titan, by the sea 
Of tempest-tost humanity ; 
And to the earth, and sea, and sky, 
He uttereth a thunder-cry 

Out of his breaking heart, 
And the fierce elements reply, 

And earth is cloven apart. 



Semi-Chorus II. 

Like sparks blown from a forge, the spheres 
Drift o'er us ; — all our eyes and ears 

Are full of fire and sound. 
With blood about him blown like rain, 
We see upon a darken'd plain 

Another Shape, but crown'd. 
Silent he waits, and white as death, 

Looks in the Titan's eyes. 
They stand — the black sky holds its breath — 

The deep sea stills its cries, 
The mad storm hushes driving past, 
The sick stars pause and gaze — the blast, 
The wind-rent rain, the vapours dark, 
Like dead things crouch, and wait, and hark ; 



CHORIC INTERLUDE. \\ 

And lo! those twain alone and dumb 
Loom desolate and strange. 

Semi-Chorus I. 
Is the time come ? 

Semi-Chorus II. 

The time is come. 

Chorus. 
Titan, to thy revenge ! 

Semi-Chorus I. 

O look and listen ! 

His great eyes glisten, 

Like an oak the storm rendeth 

He swayeth and bendeth, 

With lips torn asunder 

He shakes, but no thunder 

Comes thence. 

Semi-Chorus II. 

While still nigh him. 
With smiles that defy him, 



142 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

The crown'd one is standing,— 
His pale look commanding 
A tigress that crouching 
Beneath him and touching 

His feet with low cries, 
Waits, fiercely betraying 
Blood's thirst yet obeying 

His eyes. 

Chorus. 
Is he doom'd ? 

A Voice. 

He is doom'd. 

Chorus. 

Oh, by whom ? 

Voice. 
By the child yet unborn in the womb, 
By the dead laid to sleep in the tomb 7 
He is doom'd, he is doom'd. 

Chorus. 

Speak his doom ! 



CHORIC INTERLUDE. 143 

First Voice. 
Napoleon ! Napoleon ! 

Second Voice, 

"Who cries r 

First Voice. 

I, child of the earth and the skies, 
I, Titan, the mystical birth, 
Whose voice since the morning of earth 
Hath doom'd such as thou in the end, 
Speak thy doom ! 

Second Voice. 

Speak ! I smile and attend. 

First Voice. 

Because thou hast with lies and incantations, 
With broken vows and false asseverations, 

For thine own ends accurst, 

Betrayed me from the first, 
I speak and doom thee, in the name of 
nations. 



144 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

Because I have wander'd like a great stream 

flowing 
From its own channel and thro 5 strange 
gulfs going, 
So that for years and years 
I must retrace in tears 
The black and barren pathway of thy show- 
ing. 

Because one further step after thy leading 
Had hurl'd me down to doom past interced- 
ing, 

So that I never again, 

In passion or in pain, 
Might look upon the face I follow pleading. 

Because thou hast led me blind knee-deep 

thro' slaughter, 
Thro' fields of blood that wash'd our way like 
water, 
Because in that divine 
Name I adore, and mine, 
Thou hast bruised Earth, and to desolation 
brought her. 



CHORIC INTERLUDE. 145 

Because thou hast been a liar and blas- 
phemer, 

Deeming me trebly dotard and a dreamer. 
Because thy hand at length 
Would strike me in my strength, 

Lie, deathless ! me, diviner and supremer ! 

Because all voices of the earth and azure, 
All things that breathe, all things curst for 
thy pleasure, 
All poor dead men who died 
To feed thy bitter pride, 
All living, all dead, cry — mete to him our 
measure. 

Because thou hast slain Kings, and as a 

token 
Stolen their crowns and worn them, having 
spoken 
My curse against the same ; 
Because all things proclaim 
That thou didst swear a troth, and that 'tis 
broken. 

L 



h6 the drama of kings. 

By her whom thou didst swear under God's 

heaven 
To find ; by her who being found was driven 
O'er earth, air, sky, and sea, 
Thro' desolate ways by thee, 
With voice appealing and with raiment 
riven ! 



Because thou hast turned upon and violated 
Her soul to whom thou first wert conse- 
crated, 
Because thro' thy soul's lie 
And life's delusion, I 
Must wait more ages who have wept and 
waited 



Since the beginning. By the soul of Patience 
Sick of thy face and its abominations, 

I speak on thine and thee 

The doom of destiny, 
Hear it, and die, hear in the name of na- 
tions. 



CHORIC INTERLUDE. 147 

Semi-Chorus I. 



Is he doom'd ? 

Semi-Chorus II. 

He is doom'd. Tis the end. 

First Voice. 
Napoleon ! 

Second Voice. 
Speak ! I attend. 

First Voice. 
Utter the doom thou dost crave. 

Second Voice. 
'Tis spoken. A shroud and a grave. 

First Voice. 

O voices of earth, air, and sky, 
Hear ye his doom, and reply. 

Voices. 
Death is sleep. Let him wake and not die. 



■148 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

First Voice. 

Because by thee all comfort hath been taken, 
So that the Earth rocks still forlorn and 
shaken, 
Staring at the sad skies 
With sleepless aching eyes, 
Thou shalt not die, but wait and watch and 
waken. 

This is thy doom. Lone as a star thy being 
Shall see the waves break and the drift-cloud 
fleeing, 
Hear the wind cry and grow, 
Watch the great waters flow, 
And seeing all, shine hid from all men's 
seeing. 

Here on this Isle amid a sea of sorrow 
I cast thee down. Black night and weary 
morrow, 
Lie there alone, forgot, 
So doom'd and pitied not ; 
Let all things watch thy face and thy face 
borrow 



CHORIC INTERLUDE. 149 

The look of these mad elements that ever 
Strike, scream, and mingle, sever and dis- 
sever ; 
Gather from air and sea 
The thirst of all things free, 
The up-looking want, the hunger ceasing 
never. 



All shall forget thee. Thou shalt hear the 

nations 
Flocking with music light and acclamations 

To kiss his royal feet 

Who sitteth in thy Seat, 
Surrounded by the slaves of lofty stations. 



A rock in the lone sea shall be thy pillow. 
In the wide waste of gray wave and green 
billow, 
The days shall rise and set 
In silence, and forget 
To sun thee, — a black shape beneath a 
willow 



ISO THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

Watching the weary waters with heart 

bleeding ; 
Or dreaming cheek upon tlry hand ; or 
reading 
The book upon thy knee ; 
And ever as the sea 
Moans, raising eyes to the still heaven, and 
pleading ; 



Till like a wave worn out with silent 

breaking ; 
Or like a wind blown weary ; thou, forsaking 

Thy tenement of clay, 

Shalt wear and waste away, 
And grow a portion of the ever- waking 



Tumult of cloud and sea. Feature by feature 
Losing the likeness of the living creature, 

Returning back thy form 

To its elements of storm, 
Thou shalt dissolve in the great wreck of 
Nature. 



Is it done ? 



CHORIC INTERLUDE. 151 

Semi-Chorus I. 

Semi-Chorus II. 
It is done*. 

Semi-Chorus I. 

Look again. 

Semi-Chorus II. 

I see on the rock in the main 
The Shape sitting dark by the sea, 
And his shade, and the shade of the tree 
Where he sitteth, are pencil'd jet-black 
On the bright purple sky at his back ; 
But lo ! while I gaze, from the sky 
Like phantoms they vanish and die : — 
All is dark. 

Semi-Chorus I. 
Look again. 

Semi-Chorus II. 

Hark, O hark ! 



152 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

Semi-Chorus I. 

A shrill cry is piercing the dark — 
Like the multitudinous moan 
Of the waves as they clash, comes a groan 
From afar — 

First Voice. 
What is this, O ye free ? 

Semi-Chorus II. 

He has gone like a wave of the sea — 
Day dieth, the light falleth red, — 
O Titan, behold he is dead ! . . . 

Chorus. 

Strange hands are passed across our eyes, 
Before our souls strange visions rise, 

And dim shapes come and flee ; 
The mists of dream are backward rolled — 
As from a mountain we behold 

That island in the sea. 



CHORIC INTERLUDE. 153 

Semi-Chorus I. 
Now bow thy face upon thy breast, 
O Titan, and bemoan thy quest ! 
O look not thither with thine eyes, 
But lift them to the constant skies ! 

A Voice. 

What do ye see that thus to me 
Ye turn and smile so bitterly ? 

Semi-Chorus I. 
'Tis vision. On that island bare 
Sits one with face divinely fair, 

And pensive smiling lips ; 
And on her lap the proud head lies, 
Pale with the seal on its proud eyes 

Of Death's divine eclipse ; 
All round is darkness of the sea, 
And sorrow of the cloud. 

Semi-Chorus II. 

Yet she 
Is making with her heavenly face 
Sweetness like sunlight ; and the place 



154 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

Grows luminous ; and the world afar 
Looks thither as to some new star, 
All wondering ; and with lips of death 
Men name one name beneath their breath, 
Not cursing as of yore, for now 
All the inexorable brow 
Is mouldering marble. 

Semi-Chorus I. 

Hark, Q hark, 
A silver voice divides the dark ! 

A Voice. 
Hither, O hither! 

Another Voice. 
Whither ? 

First Voice. 

O sweet is sleep if sleep be deep, 
And sweetest far to eyes that weep ; 
He who upon my breast doth creep 
Shall close his weary eyes and sleep. 



CHORIC INTERLUDE. 

Yet he who seeks me shall not find, 
And he who chains me shall not bind ; 
For fleeter-footed than the wind 
I still elude all human kind. 

Yet when, soul-weary of the chase, 
Falleth some man of mortal race, 
I pause — I find him in his place, 
I pause — I bless his dying face. 

Whatsoever man he be, 

I take his head upon my knee, 

I give him words and kisses three, 

Kissing I whisper, "Thou art free." 

free is sleep if sleep be deep ! — 

1 soothe them sleeping, and I heap 
Greenness above them, and they weep 
No longer, but are free, and sleep. 

O royal face and royal head ! 

O lips that thunder'd ! O eyes red 

With nights of watch ! O great soul dead, 

Thy blood is water, thy heart lead ! 



156 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

They doom'd thee in my name, but see 
I doom thee not, but set thee free ; 
Balm for all hearts is shed by me, 
And for all spirits liberty, 

He finds me least who loves me best, 
His Soul in an eternal quest 
Wails still, while one by one are prest 
Tyrants, that hate me, to my breast. 

The sad days fly — the slow years creep, 
And he alone doth never sleep. 
Would he might slumber and not weep. 
O free is sleep, if sleep be deep. 

Second Voice. 
Irene ! 



THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

Part II. 
NAPOLEON FALLEN. 



SPEAKERS, 



Napoleon III. 

An Officer of the Imperial Staff. 

A Roman Catholic Bishop. 

A Physician. 

Messengers. 

Chorus of Spirits. 



Scene — The Chateau of Wilhelmshohe, hi Cassel. 
Time — 1870, shortly after the surrender of Sedan. 



SCENE.— THE CHATEAU OF WILHELMS- 
HOHE, IN CASSEL. 

CHORUS. 

Strange are the bitter things 
God wreaks on cruel Kings ; 
Sad is the cup drunk up 

By Kings accurst. 
In secret ways and strong 
God doth avenge man's wrong. 
The least, God saith, is Death, 

And Life the worst. 

Sit under the sweet skies ; 
Think how Kings set and rise, 
Think, wouldst thou know the woe 
In each proud breast ? 



1 62 THE DRAMA OF KINGS, 

Sit on the hearth and see 
Children look up to thee — 
Think, wouldst thou own a throne, 
Or lowly rest ? 



Ah, to grow old, grow old, 
Upon a throne of gold — 
Ah, on a throne, so lone, 

To wear a crown ; 
To watch the clouds, the air, 
Lest storm be breeding there — 
Pale, lest some blast may cast 

Thy glory down. 



He who with miser's ken 

Hides his red gold from men, 

And wakes and grieves, lest thieves 

Be creeping nigh ; 
He who hath murder done, 
And fears each rising sun, 
Lest it say plain, " O Cain, 

Rise up and die ! " 



X. IPOLEOX FALLEN. 163 

These and all underlings 
Are blesseder than Kings, 
For ah ! by weight of fate 

King's hearts are riven ; 
With blood and gold they too 
Reckon their sad days thro' — 
They fear the plan of man, 

The wrath of heaven. 



In the great lonely bed, 

Hung round with gold and red, 

While the dim light each night 

Burns in the room, 
They lie alone and see 
The rustling tapestry, 
Lest Murther's eyes may rise 

Out of the gloom. 



Dost thou trust any man r 
Thou dost what no King can. 
Friend hast thou near and dear 
A King hath none. 



f64 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

Hast thou true love to kiss r 
A King hath no such bliss, 
On no true breast may rest 
Under the sun. 



Ah, to sit cold, sit cold, 
Upon a throne of gold, 
Forcing the while a smile 

To hide thy care ; 
To taste no cup, to eat 
No food, however sweet, 
But with a drear dumb fear, 

Lest Death be there ! 



Ah, to rule men, and know 
How many wish thee low — 
That, 'neath the sun, scarce one 

Would keep thee high : 
To watch in agony 
The strife of all things free, 
To dread the mirth of Earth 

When thou shalt die ! 



NAPOLEON FALLEN. 165 

Hast thou a hard straw bed ? 
Hast thou thy crust of bread ? 
And hast thou quaff' d thy draught 

Of water clear r 
And canst thou dance and sing r — 
O blesseder than a King ! 
O happy one whom none 

Doth hate or fear ! 



Wherefore, though from the stron; 
Thou sufferest deep wrong, 
Tho' Kings, with ire and fire, 

Have wrought thee woe : 
Pray for them ! for I swear 
Deeply they need thy prayer — 
Most in their hour of power, 

Least when cast low. 



And when thou castest down 
King, sceptre, throne, and crown, 
Pause that same day, and pray 
For the accurst. 



166 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

Ah, in strange ways and strong 
God doth avenge man's wrong— 
The least, God saith, is Death, 
And Life the worst. 



NAPOLEON. A PHYSICIAN. 

Physician. 

The sickness is no sickness of the flesh, 
No ailment such as common mortals feel, 
But spiritual : 'tis thy fiery thought 
Drying the wholesome humour of the veins, 
Consuming the brain's substance, and from 

thence, 
As flame spreads, thro' each muscle, vein, 

and nerve, 
Reaching the vital members. If your High- 
ness 
Could stoop from .the tense strain of great 

affairs 
To books and music, or such idle things 
As wing the weary hours for lesser men ! 
Turn not thine eyes to France ; receive no 
news : 



NAPOLEON FALLEN. 167 

Shut out the blinding gleam of battle ; rest 
From all fierce ache of thought ; and for a 

time 
Let the wild world go by. 

Napoleon. 

Enough, old Iriend : 
Thine is most wholesome counsel. I will 

seek 
To make this feverish mass of nerve and 

thew, 
This thing of fretful heart-beats, 
Fulfil its functions more mechanically. 
Farewell. 

Physician. 

Farewell, Sire. Brighter waking thoughts, 
And sweeter dreams, attend thee ! [Exit. 



Napoleon. 

All things change 
Their summer livery for the autumn tinge 



1 68 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

Of wind-blown withering leaves. That man 

is faithful, — 
I have been fed from his cold palm for 

years, 
And I believe, so strongly use and wont 
Fetter such natures, he would die to serve 

me ; 
Yet do I see in his familiar eyes 
The fatal pain of pity. I have lain 
At Death's door divers times, and he hath 

slowly, 
With subtle cunning and most confident 

skill, 
Woo'd back my breath, but never even 

then, 
Tho' God's Hand held me down, did he regard 

me 
With so intense a gaze as now, when 

smitten 
By the mail'd hand of Man. I am not 

dead! 
Not dying ! only sick, — as all are sick 
Who feel the mortal prison-house too weak 
For the free play of Soul ! I eat and drink — 



NAPOLEON FALLEN. 169 

I laugh — I weep, perchance — I feel — I think — 
I still preserve all functions of a man — 
Yet doth the free wind of the fickle world 
Blow on me with as chilly a respect 
As on a nameless grave. Is there so sad 
A sunset on my face, that all beholding 
Think only of the morrow ? — other minds, 
Other hearts, other hands ? Almighty God, 
If I dare pray Thee by that name of God, 
Strengthen me ! blow upon me with Thy 

breath ! 
Let one last memorable flash of fire 
Burst from the blackening brand ! — 

Yes, sick — sick — sick ; 
Sick of the world ; sick of the fitful fools 
That I have played with ; sick, forsooth, of 

breath, 
Of thought, of hope, of Time. I staked my 

Soul 
Against a Crown, and won. I wore the 

Crown, 
And 'twas of burning fire. I staked my 

Crown 



170 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

Against a Continent, and lost. I am here ; 
Fallen, unking' d, the shadow of a power, 
Yet not heart-broken — no, not heart-broken — 
But surely with more equable a pulse 
Than when I sat on yonder lonely Seat 
Fishing for wretched souls, and for my 

sport, 
Although the bait was dainty to the taste, 
Hooking the basest only. I am nearer 
To the world's heart than then ; 'tis bitter 

bread, 
Most bitter, yea, most bitter ; yet I eat 
More freely, and sleep safer. I could die 

now : 
And yet I dare not die. 

Maker of men ! 
Thou Wind before whose strange breath we 

are clouds 
Driving and changing ! — Thou who dost 

abide 
While all the laurels on the brows of 

Kings 
Wither as wreaths of snow ! — Thou Voice that 

dwellest 



NAPOLEON FALLEN. 171 

In the high sleeping chambers of the great, 
When council and the feverish pomp are 

hush'd, 
And the dim lamp burns low, and at its side 
The sleeping potion in a cup of gold : — 
Hear me, O God, in this my travail hour ! 
From first to last, Thou knowest — yea, Thou 

knowest — 
I have been a man of peace : a silent man, 
Thought-loving, most ambitious to appease 
Self-chiding fears of mental littleness, 
A planner of delights for simple men — 
In all, a man of peace. I struck one blow, 
And saw my hands were bloody ; from that 

hour 
I knew myself too delicately wrought 
For crimson pageants \ yea, the sight of 

pain 
Sicken'd me like a woman. Day and night 
I felt that stain on my immortal soul, 
And gloved it from the world, and dili- 
gently 
Wrought the red sword of empire to a 
scythe 



172 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

For the swart hands of husbandmen to reap 
Abundant harvest. — Nay, but hear me swear, 
I never dreamed such human harvests blest 
As spring from that red rain which pours this 

day 
On the fair fields I sowed. Never, O God, 
Was I a butcher or a thing of blood ; 
Always a man of peace : — in mine ambition 
Peace-seeking, peace-engendering ; — till that 

day 
I saw the half-unloosen'd hounds of War 
Yelp on the chain and gnash their bloody 

teeth, 
Ready to rend mine unoffending Child, 
In whose weak hand the mimic toy of empire 
Trembled to fall. Then feverishly I wrought 
A weapon in the dark to smite those hounds 
From mine imperial seat ; and as I wrought 
One of the fiends that came of old to Cain 
Found me, and since I thirsted gave to me 
A philtre, and in idiocy I drank : 
When suddenly I heard as in a dream 
Trumpets around me silver-tongued, and saw 
The many-colour' d banners gleam in the sun 



NAPOLEON FALLEX. 173 

Above the crying legions, and I rode 

Royal before them, drunk with light and 

power, 
My boy beside me blooming like a rose 
To see the glorious show. Yet God, my God, 
Even then I swear the hideous lust of life 
Was far from me and mine ; nay, I rode 

forth, 
As to a gay review at break of day, 
A student dazzled with the golden glare, 
Half conscious of the cries of those he ruled, 
Half brooding o'er the book that he had left 
Open within his chamber. "Blood may 

flow," 
I thought, " a little blood — a few poor drops, — 
A few poor drops of blood : but they shall 

prove 
Pearls of great price to buy my people peace ; 
The hounds of War shall turn from our fair 

fields, 
And on my son a robe like this I wear 
Shall fall, and make him royal for all 

time ! " 
O fool, fool, fool ! What was I but a child, 



174 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

Pleased beyond understanding with a toy, 
Till in mine ears the scream of murther'd 

France 
Rang like a knell. I had slain my best 

beloved ! 
The curse of blood was on mine hands again ! 
My gentle boy, with wild affrighted gaze, 
Turn'd from his sire, and moaned ; the hounds 

of War 
Scream'd round me, glaring with their pitiless 

eyes 
Innumerable as the eyes of heaven ; 
I felt the sob of the world's woe ; I saw 
The fiery rain fill all the innocent air ; 
And, feeble as a maid who hides her face 
In terror at a sword-flash, conscience-struck, 
Sick, stupefied, appalled, and all alone, 
I totter'd, grasped the empty air, — and fell ! 

CHORUS. 

Vast Sea of Life that 'neath the arc 

Of yonder glistening sky, 
Rollest thy waters deep and dark, 

While windy years blow by : 



NAPOLEON FALLEN. 175 

On thy pale shore this night we stand, 
And hear thy wash upon the sand. 

Calm is thy sheet and wanly bright, 

Low is thy voice and deep ; 
There is no child on earth this night 

Wrapt in a gentler sleep ; 
Crouch' d like a hound thou liest now, 
With eye upcast and dreadful brow. 

O Sea, thy breast is deep and blest 

After a dreadful day ; 
And yet thou listenest in thy rest 

For some sign far away ; 
Watching with fascinated eyes 
The uplifted Finger in the skies \ 

Who broods beside thee, with dark shade 

Upon the moonlit sands, 
Who looks on thee with eyes afraid, 

And supplicating hands ? — 
Creep closer, lap his feet, O Sea I 
'Tis the sad Man of Destiny. 



176 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

He says a word, he names a name, 

He cries to the Most High, 
Half kneeling, torn with sudden shame, 

He utters his lone cry. 
Thou watchest the blue heaven ; but he, 
Praying to heaven, watches thee. 

He pleads to God, yet dares not lift 

His eyes to find the Face ; 
But rather, where the waters drift, 

Stands in a shadowy place, 
And looking downward sees at last 
Fragments of wreck thy waves upcast. 

A hundred years thy still tides go 
And touch the self-same mark — 

Thus far, no farther, may they flow 
And fall in light and dark ; 

The mystic water-line is drawn 

By moonlit night and glimmering dawn. 

Sure as a heart-beat year by year, 
Though winds and thunders call, 

Be it storm or calm, the tides appear, 
Touch the long line and fall, 



NAPOLEON FALLEN. 177 

Liquid and luminously dim ; 

And men build dwellings on their brim. 

O well may this man wring his hands, 

And utter a wild prayer. 
He built above thy lonely sands 

A Feast-house passing fair ; 
It rose above thy sands, O Sea, 
In a fair nook of greenery. 

For he had watched thee many days, 

And mark'd thy weedy line, 
And far above the same did raise 

His Temple undivine. 
Throng'd with fair shapes of sin and guilt 
It rose, most magically built. 

Not to the one eternal Light, 

Lamp of both quick and dead, 
Did he uprear it in thy sight, 

But with a smile he said : 
" To the unvarying laws of P'ate, 
This Temple fair I dedicate. 
N 



178 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

" To that sure law by which the Sea 

Is driven to come and go 
Within one mystic boundary, 

And can no further flow ; 
So that who knoweth destiny 
May safely build, nor fear the Sea ! " 

O fool ! O miserable clod ! 

O creature made to die ! 
Who thought to mark the might of God 

And mete it with his eye ; 
Who measured God's mysterious ways 
By laws of common nights and days. 

O worm, that sought to pass God by, 
Nor feared that God's revenge : 

The law within the law, whereby 
All things work on to change ; 

Who guessed not how the still law's course 

Accumulates superfluous force ; — 

How for long intervals and vast 
Strange secrets hide from day, 

Till Nature's womb upheaves to cast 
The gather'd load away ; 



NAPOLEON FALLEN. 

How deep the very laws of life 
Deposit elements of strife. 

O many a year in sun and shower 

The quiet waters creep ! — 
But suddenly on some dark hour 

Strange trouble shakes the deep : 
Silent and monstrous thro' the gloom 
Rises the Tidal Wave for doom. 

Then woe for all who, like this Man, 

Have built so near the Sea, 
For what avails the human plan 

When the new force flows free \ 
Over their bounds the waters stream. 
And Empires crash and despots scream. 

O, is it earthquake far below 
Where the still forces sleep \ 

Doth the volcano shriek and glow, 
Unseen beneath the deep ? 

We know not ; suddenly as death 

Comes the great Wave with fatal breath. 



'79 



i8o THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

God works his ends for ever thus, 
And lets the great plan roll. 

He wrought all things miraculous, 
The Sea, the Earth, the Soul ; 

And nature from dark springs doth draw 

Her fatal miracles of law. 

O well may this Man wring his hands, 

And utter a wild prayer ; 
He built above the shifting sands 

A Feast-house passing fair. 
Long years it stood, a thing of shame : 
At last the mighty moment came. 

Crashing like glass into its grave , 

Fell down the fair abode ; 
The despot struggled in the wave, 

And swimming screamed to God. 
And lo, the waters with deep roar 
Cast the black weed upon the shore. 

Then with no warning, as they rose, 
Shrunk back to their old bounds : 

Tho' still with deep volcanic throes 
And sad mysterious sounds 



XAPOLEON FALLEX. 

They quake. The Man upon their brim 
Sees wreck of Empire washed to him. 

Vast Sea of life, that 'neath the arc 

Of yonder glistening sky, 
Spreadest thy waters strange and dark 

While windy years blow by, 
Creep closer, kiss his feet, O Sea, 
Poor baffled worm of Destiny ! 

Fain would he read with those dull eyes 
What never man hath known, 

The secret that within thee lies 
Seen by God's sight alone ; 

Thou watchest Heaven all hours ; but he, 

Praying to Heaven, watches thee. 

So will he watch with weary breath 

Musing beside the deep, 
Till on thy shore he sinks in death, 

And thy still tides upcreep, 
Raise him with cold forgiving kiss, 
And wash his dust to the Abyss. 



i8.2 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

NAPOLEON. A BISHOP. 

Napoleon. 

Speak out thy tidings quickly, 

How fares it with the Empress and my son ? 

Bishop. 

Well, Sire. They bid thee look thy fate in 

the face, 
And be of cheer. 

Napoleon. 
Where didst thou part with them ? 

Bishop. 

In England, Sire, where they have found a 

home 
Among the frozen-blooded islanders, 
Who yesterday called blessings on thy brow, 
And now rejoice in thy calamity. 
Thus much thy mighty lady bade me say, 
If I should find thee private in thy woe : — 



NAPOLEON FALLEN. 183 

With thy great name the streets are garru- 
lous : 

Mart, theatre, and church, palace and prison, 

Down to the very commons by the road 

Where Egypt's bastard children pitch their 
tents, 

Murmur " Napoleon ; " but, alas ! the sound 

Is as an echo that with no refrain, 

No loving echo in a living voice, 

Dies a cold death among the mountain 
snow. 

Napoleon. 

Old man, I never looked for friendship there, 
I never loved that England in my heart ; 
Tho' twas by such a sampler I believed 
To weave our France's fortunes thriftily 
With the gold tissues of prosperity. 

Bishop. 
Ah, Sire, if I dare speak — 

Napoleon. 

Speak on. 



1 84 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

Bishop. 

Too much 
Thine eyes to that cold isle of heretics 
Turn'd from thy throne for use and precedent ; 
Too little did they look, and that too late, 
On that strong rock whereon the Lord thy God 
Hath built His Holy Church. 

Napoleon. 

Something of this 
I have heard in happier seasons. 

Bishop. 

Hear it now 
In the dark day of thine adversity. 

Sire, by him who holds the blessed Keys, 
Christ's Vicar on the earth for blinded men, 

1 do conjure thee, hearken — with my mouth, 
Tho' I am weak and low, the Holy Church 
Cries to her erring son ! 

Napoleon. 

Well, well, he hears. 



NAPOLEON FALLEN. 185 

Bishop. 
Thou smilest, Sire. With such a smile, so 

grim, 
So bitter, didst thou mock our blessed cause 
In thy prosperity. 

Napoleon. 

False, Bishop, false ! 
I made a bloody circle with my sword 
Round the old Father's head, and so secured 

him 
Safe on his tottering Seat against the world, 
When all the world cried that his time was 

come. 
What then ? He totter'd on. I could not 

prop 
His Seat up with my sword, that Seat being 

built, 
Not on a rock, but sand. 

Bishop. 

The world is sick 
And old indeed, when lips like thine blas- 
pheme. 



1 86 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

Whisper such words out on the common air, 

And, as a child, 

Blow thy last hopes away. 

Napoleon. 

Hopes, hopes ! What hopes ? 
What knowest thou of hopes ? 

Bishop. 

Thy throne was rear'd 
(Nay hear me, Sire, in patience to the end) 
Not on the vulgar unsubstantial air 
Which men call Freedom, not on half consent 
Of unbelievers — tho', alas ! thou hast stoop'd 
To smile on unbelievers — not on lives 
That saw in thee one of the good and wise, 
Not wholly on the watchword of thy name ; 
But first on this — the swords thy gold could 

buy, 
And most and last, upon the help of those 
Who to remotest corners of our land 
Watch o'er the souls of men, sit at their 

hearths, 



NAPOLEON FALLEN. 1S7 

Lend their solemnity to birth and death, 
Guide as they list the motions of the mind, 
And as they list with darkness or with light 
Appease the spiritual hunger. "Where 
Had France been, and thou, boasted Sun of 

France, 
For nineteen harvests, save for those who 

crept 
Thine agents into every cottage-door, 
Slowly diffusing thro' each vein of France 
The sleepy wine of empire ? Like to slaves 
These served thee, used thy glory for a charm, 
Hung up thine image in a peasant's room 
Beside our blessed Saints, and cunningly, 
As shepherds drive their sheep unto the 

fold, 
Gather'd thy crying people where thy hand 
Might choose them out for very butchery. 
Nay, more ; as fearful men may stamp out 

fire, 
They in the spirits of thy people killed 
The sparks of peril left from those dark days, 
When France being drunk with blood and 

mad with pain 



1 88 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

Sprang on the burning pyre, and with her 

raiment 
Burning and streaming crimson in the wind, 
Curst and denied her God. They made men 

see, 
Yea, in the very name of Liberty, 
A net of Satan's set to snare the soul 
From Christ and Christ's salvation : in their 

palms 
They welded the soft clay of popular thought 
To this wish'd semblance yet more cunningly ; 
Till not a peasant heir of his own fields, 
And not a citizen that own'd a house, 
And not a man or woman who had saved, 
But when some wild voice shriek'd out 

" Liberty ! " 
Trembled as if the robber's foot were set 
Already on his threshold, and in fear 
Clutch'd at his little store. These things did 

they, 
Christ's servants serving thee ; they were as 

veins 
Bearing the blood through France from thee 

its heart 



NAPOLEON FALLEN. 189 

Throbbing full glorious in the capital. 

And thou, O Sire, in thine own secret mind 

Knowest what meed thou hast accorded 
them, 

Who, thy sworn liegemen in thy triumph- 
hour, 

Are still thy props in thy calamity. 

Napoleon. 
Well ; have you done ? 

Bishop. 
Not yet. 

Napoleon. 

What more \ 

Bishop. 

Look round 
This day on Europe, look upon the World, 
Which like a dark tree o'er the river of Time 
Hangeth with fruit of races, goodly some, 



190 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

Some rotten to the core. Out of the heart 
Of what had seem'd the sunset of the west, 
Rises the Teuton, silent, subtle, and sure, 
Gathering his venom slowly like a snake, 
Wrapping the sleepy lands in fold by fold ; 
Then springing up to stab his prey with fangs 
Numerous as spears of wheat in harvest time. 
O, he is wise, the Teuton, he is deep 
As Satan's self in perilous human lore, 
Such as the purblind deem philosophy ! 
But, be he cunning as the Tempter was, 
Christ yet shall bruise his head ; for in him- 
self 
He bears, as serpents use, 
A brood of lesser snakes, cunning things too 
But lesser, and of these many prepare 
Such peril as in his most glorious hour 
May strike him feebler than the wretched 

worms 
That crawl this day on the dead lambs of 

France. 
Meantime, he to his purpose moves most slow, 
And overcomes. Note how, upon her rock, 
The sea-beast Albion, swollen with idle years 



NAPOLEON FALLEN. 191 

Of basking in the prosperous sunshine, rolls 
Her fearful eyes, and murmurs. See how 

wildly 
The merciless Russian paceth like a bear 
His lonely steppes of snow, and with deep 

moan 
Calling his hideous young, casts famished 

eyes 
On that worn Paralytic in the East, 
Whom thou of old didst save. Call thou to 

these 
For succour ; shall they stir ? Will the sea- 
beast 
Budge from her rock ? Will the bear leave 

his wilds r 
Then mark how feebly in the wintry cold 
Old Austria ruffles up her plumage, Sire, 
Covering the half-heal'd wound upon her 

neck; 
See how on Spain her home-bred vermin 

feed, 
As did the worms on Herod ; Italy- 
Is as a dove-cote by a battle-field, 
Abandoned to the kites of infamy ; 



192 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

Belgium, Denmark, and Helvetia, 
Like plovers watching while the wind- hover 
Strikes down one of their miserable kind, 
Wheeling upon the wind cry to each other ; 
And far away the Eagle of the West, 
Poised in the lull of her own hurricane, 
Sits watching thee with eyes as blank of love 
As those grey seas that break beneath her 
feet. 

Napoleon. 

This is cold comfort, yet I am patient. Well ? 

To the issue ! Dost thou keep behind the 
salve 

Whose touch shall heal my wounds ? or dost 
thou only, 

As any raven on occasion can, 

Croak out the stale truth, that the day is lost, 

And that the world's slaves knee the con- 
queror r 

Bishop. 

Look not on these, thy crowned peers, for aid, 
But inward. Read thy heart. 



NAPOLEON FALLEN. 193 

Napoleon. 

It is a book 
I have studied somewhat deeply. 

Bishop. 

In thine heart, 
Tho' the cold lips might sneer, the dark brow 

frown, 
Wert thou not ever one believing God ? 

Napoleon. 
I have believed, and do believe, in God. 

Bishop. 

For that, give thanks to God. He shall up- 
lift thee. 



Napoleon. 
How r 



Bishop. 

By the secret hands of His great Church. 
Even now in darkness and in tilths remote 
o 



i 9 4 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

They labour in thy service ; one by one 
They gather up the fallen reins of power 
And keep them for thy grasp ; so be thou 

sure, 
When thou hast woven round about thy 

soul 
The robe of holiness, and from the hands 
Of Holy Church demandest thy lost throne, 
It shall be hers to give thee. 



Napoleon. 

In good truth, 
I scarce conceive thee. What, degenerate 

Rome, 
With scarce the power in this strong wind of 

war 
To hold her ragged gauds about her limbs ; 
Rome, reft of the deep thunder in her voice, 
The dark curse in her eye ; Rome, old, dumb, 

blind, — 
Shall Rome give Kingdoms ? — Why, she hath 

already 
Transferred her own to Heaven. 



napoleon fallen. 195 

Bishop. 

Canst thou follow 
The coming and the going of the wind, 
Fathom the green abysses of the sea ? 
For such as these, is Rome : — the voice of God 
Sounding in darkness and a silent place ; 
The morning dew scarce seen upon the 

flowers, 
Yet drawn to heaven and grown the thunder- 
bolt 
That shakes the earth at noon. When man's 

wild soul 
Clutches no more at the white feet of Christ ; 
When death is not, nor spiritual disease ; 
When atheists can on the black mountain 

tops 
Walk solitary in the light of stars, 
And cry, " God is not ; " when no mothers 

kneel 
Moaning on graves of children ; when no 

flashes 
Trouble the melancholy dark of dream ; 
When prayer is hush'd, when the Wise Book 

is shut — 



196 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

Then Rome shall fall indeed : meantime she 

is based 
Invulnerable on the soul, of man, 
Its darkest needs and fears ; she doth dispense 
What soon or late is better prized than gold, — 
Comfort and intercession ; for all sin 
She hath the swiftest shrift, wherefore her 

clients 
Are those that have sinned deeply, and of such 
Is half the dreadful world ; all these she holds 
By that cold eyeball which hath read their 

souls, 
So that they look upon her secretly 
And tremble, — while in her dark book of Fate 
E'en now she dooms the Teuton. 

{Enter a Messenger. 

Napoleon. 

Well, what news ? 

Messenger. 
'Tis brief and sad. The mighty Prussian 

chiefs, 
Gathering their fiery van in silence, close 



NAPOLEON FALLEN. 197 

Toward the imperial City — in whose walls 
Treason and Rage and Fear contend together 
Like hunger-stricken wolves; and at their cry, 
Echoed from Paris to the Vosges, France, 
Calling her famish'd children round her 

knees, 
Looks at the trembling nations. All is still, 
Like to that silence which precedes the storm, 
And shakes the forest leaves without a 

breath ; 
But surely as the vaporous storm is woven, 
The German closes round the heart of France 
His hurricane of lives. 

Napoleon {to Bishop). 

The Teuton thrives 
Under the doom we spake of. {To Mes- 
senger.) Well, speak on ! 

Messenger. 
Meantime, like kine that see the gathering 

clouds 
And shelter 'neath the shade of rocks and 

trees, 



198 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

Thy timorous people fly before the sound 
Of the approaching footsteps, seeking woods 
For shelter, snaring conies for their food, 
And sleeping like the beasts ; some fare in 

caves, 
Fearing the wholesome air, hushing the 

cries 
Of infants lest the murderous foe should 

hear; 
Some scatter west and south, their frighted 

eyes 
Cast backward, with their wretched house- 
hold goods ; 
And where these dwelt, most blest beneath 

thy rule, 
The German legions thrive, let loose like 

swine 
Amid the fields of harvest, in their track 
Leaving the smoking ruin, and the church 
Most desecrated to a sleeping-sty ; — 
So that the plenteous lands that rolled in 

gold 
Round thy voluptuous City, lie full bare 
To shame, to rapine, to calamity. 



XAPOLEON FALLEN. 199 



Napoleon. 



for one hour of empire, that with life 

1 might consume this sorrow ! 'Tis a spell 
By which we are subdued ! 

Messenger. 

Strasbourg still stands, 
Stubborn as granite, but the citadel 
Is falling. Within, Famine and Horror 

nest, 
And rear their young on ruin. [Exit. 

[Enter a Messenger. 

Napoleon. 

How, peal on peal ! 
Like the agonizing clash of bells when 

flame 
Hath seized on some fair city. News, more 

news ? 
Dost thou too catch the common trick o' the 

time, 
And ring a melancholy peal ? 



200 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

Messenger. 

My liege, 
Strasbourg still stands. 

Napoleon. 
And then ? 

Messenger. 

Pent up in Metz, 
Encircled by a river of strong lives, 
Bazaine is faithful to the cause and thee, 
And from his prison doth proclaim himself, 
And all the host of Frenchmen at his back, 
Thy liegemen to the death. 

Napoleon. 

Why, that last peal 
Sounds somewhat blither. Well ? 

Messenger. 

From his lone isle, 
The old Italian Red-shirt in his age 
Hath crawl'd, tho' sickly and infirm, to France, 



XAPOLEON FALLEN. 



And slowly there his leonine features breed 
Hope in the timid people, who 



Napoleon. 

Enough ! [Exit Messenger. 
That tune is flat and tame. 

{Enter a Messenger. 

What man art thou, 

On whose swart face the frenzied lightning 

plays, 
Prophetic of the thunder on the tongue ? 
Speak ! 

Messenger. 

Better I had died at Weissenburg, 
Where on the bloody field I lay for dead, 
Than live to bring this woe. Ungenerous 

France, 
Forgetful of thy gracious years of reign, 
Pitiless as a sated harlot is 
When ruin overtaketh him whose hand 
Hath loaded her with gems, shameless and 

mad, 



202 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

France, like Delilah, now betrays her lord. 
The streets are drunken — from thy palace- 
gate 
They pluck the imperial eagles, trampling 

them 
Into the bloody mire ; thy flags and pennons, 
Torn from their vantage in the wind, are 

wrapt 
In mockery round the beggar's ragged limbs ; 
And thine imperial images in stone, 
Dash'd from their lofty places, strew the 

ground 
In shameful ruin. All the ragged shout, 
While Trochu from the presidential seat 
Proclaims the empire dead, and calleth up 
A new Republic, in whose chairs of office 
Thine enemies, scribblers and demagogues, 
Simon, Gambetta, Favre, and link'd with 

these 
The miserable Rochefort, trembling grasp 
The reins of power, unconscious of the scorn 
That doth already doom them. To their feet 
Come humming back, vain-drunken, all the 
wasps 



NAPOLEON FALLEN. 203 

Whom in thine hour of glory thou didst brush 
With careless arm-sweep from thy festal cup : 
Shoulder'd by mobs the pigmy Blanc de- 
claims, 
The hare-brain'd Hugo shrieks a maniac 

song 
In concert, and the scribblers, brandishing 
Their pens like valiant lilliputians 
Against the Teuton giant, frantically 
Scream chorus. Coming with mock-humble 

eyes 
To the Republic, this sham shape of straw, 
This stuff d thing of a harlot's carnival, 
The dilettante sons of Orleans, kneeling, 
Proffer forsooth their swords, which being 

disdain'd 
They sheathe chapfallen and with bows 

withdraw 
Back to their pictures and perfumery. 

Napoleon. 

Why, thine is news indeed. Nor do I weep 
For mine own wrong, but for the woes of 
France, 



204 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. '■ 

Whose knell thou soundest. With a tongue 

of fire 
Our enemy shall like the ant-eater 
Devour these insect rulers suddenly. 
[Aside] Now, may the foul fiend blacken all 

the air 
Above these Frenchmen, with revolt and 

fear 
Darken alike the wits of friends and 

foes, 
With swift confusion and with anarchy 
Disturb their fretful councils, till at last, 
Many-tongued, wild-hair'd, mad, and hor- 
rible 
With fiery eyes and naked crimson limbs, 
Upriseth the old Spectre of the Red, 
And as of yore uplifts the shameful knife 
To stab unhappy France ; then, in her 

need, 
Fearful and terror-stricken, France shall 

call 
On him who gave her nineteen plenteous 

years — 
And he may rise again. [Exeunt 



NAPOLEON FALLEN. 205 



CHORUS. 

Who in the name of France curses French 

souls this day ? 
How ! shall the tempter curse r Silence ; and 

turn away ; 
Turn we our faces hence white with a wild 

desire, 
Westward we lift our gaze till the straining- 
balls flash fire, 
Westward we look to France, sadly we 

watch and mark : — 
Far thro' the pitch-black air, like breaking 

foam in the dark, 
Cometh and goeth a light across the stricken 

land, 
And we hear a distant voice like the wash of 

waves on the sand. 



Voices. 

Set the cannon on the heights, and under 
Let the black moat gape, the black graves 
grow ! 



2o6 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

Now let thunder 

Answer back the thunder of the foe ! 
France has torn her cerements asunder, 

France doth live to strike the oppressor 
low. 

Choru§ . 

O hark ! O hark ! a voice arises wild and 

strong, 
Loud as a bell that rings alarm it lifts the 

song. 
See ! see ! the dark is lit, fire upon fire up- 

springs, 
Loudly from town to town the fiery tiding 

rings. 
Now the red smithies blaze and the blue steel 

is sped, 
They twist bright steel for guns, they cast the 

fatal lead ; 
Cannon is drawn to the gate, — and lo, the 

bravest stand 
Bare to the shoulder there, smoke-begrim'd, 

fuse in hand, 



NAPOLEON FALLEN. 207 

Now to the winds of heaven the Flag of Stars 

they raise, 
While those sing martial songs who are too 

frail for frays. 
France is uprisen again ! France the sworn 

slayer of Kings ! 
With bleeding breast and bitter heart at the 

Teuton's throat she springs. 



Voices. 

Now like thunder 

Be our voice together while we cry ; 
Kings shall never hold our spirits under, 
Kings shall cast their crowns aside and 
fly: 
Latin, Sclav, or Teuton, they shall wonder ; 
The soul of man hath doom'd them — let 
them die. 
We have slain Kings of old, they were our 

own to slay, 
But now we doom all Kings until the Judg- 
ment day, 



2o8 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

Raise ye the Flag of Stars! Tremble, 

Kings, and behold ! 
Raise ye the Flag of Man, while the knell of 

anarchs is tolled. 
This is a festal day for all the seed of Eve ; 
France shall redeem the world, and heal all 

hearts that grieve ; 
France with her sword this day shall free all 

human things, 
With blood drain 5 d from her heart our France 

shall write the doom of Kings. 

Chorus. 
Silence and hearken yet ! O but it is a cry 
Heard under heaven of old, tho' the terrible 

day blew by. 
The red fire flames to heaven, and in the 

crimson glow 
Black shapes with prayers and cries are 

gliding to and fro. 

Voices. 
Fill each loophole with a man ! and finding 
Each a foe, aim slowly at the brain, 



NAPOLEON FALLEN. 209 

While the blinding 

Lightnings flash, and the great guns re- 
frain. 
To the roofs ! and while beneath the foe are 
winding, 
Dash ye stones and missiles down like 
rain. 
Watch for the grey-beard King : to drink his 

blood were great. 
Watch for the Cub thereto — aim at his brain 

full straight. 
Watch most for that foul Knave who crawls 

behind the crown, 
Who smiles befooling all with crafty eyes 

cast down ; 
Sweeter than wine indeed his wretched blood 

would flow, 
Curst juggler with our souls, he who hath 

wrought this woe. 
France hath uprisen again ! Let the fierce 

shaft be sped 
Till all the foul satanic things that flatter 
Kings be dead. 



2 id THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

Chorus. 

Echo the dreadful prayer, let the fierce shaft 

be sped, 
Till all the foul satanic things that flatter 

Kings be dead ! 

Voices. 
Send the light balloon aloft with singing, 

Let our hopes rise with it to the sky, 
Let our voices like one fount upspringing 

Tell the mighty realm that hope is nigh ! 
See, in answer, from the distance winging 

Back unto our feet the swift doves fly ! 

Chorus. 

We see the City now, dark square and street 

and mart, 
The muffled drum doth sound reveille in its 

heart, 
The chain'd balloon doth swing, while men 

stand murmuring by, 
Then with elastic bound upleaps into the sky. 
We see the brightening dawn, the dimly 

dappled land, 



NAPOLEON FALLEN. 211 

The shapes with arms outstretch'd that on the 

housetops stand, 
The eyes that turn to meet with one quick 

flash of fear 
The birds that sad and slow wing nearer and 

more near. 
O courage! all is well — yea, let your hearts 

be higher, 
North, south, east, west, the souls of French- 
men are as fire, 
The reaper leaves the wheat, the workman 

leaves his loom, 
Tho' the black priest may frown who heeds 

his look of gloom ? 
Flash the wild tidings forth ! ring them from 

town to town, 
Till like a storm of scythes ye rise, and the 

foe like wheat go down. 

Voices. 
See ! how northward the wild heavens lighten, 

Red as blood the fierce aurora waves, 
Let it bathe us strong in blood and brighten 

Sweet with resurrection on our graves, 



2i2 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

Lighten, lighten, 

Scroll of God ! — unfold above and brighten, 
Light the doom of monarchs and their 
slaves. 
This is a day indeed — be sure that God can 

see. 
Raise the fierce cry again, " Liberty ! 

Liberty ! " 
Courage ! No man dies twice, and he shall 

live in death, 
Who for the Flag of Stars strikes with his 

latest breath. 
Nay, not a foe shall live to tell if France be 

slain : 
If the wild cause be lost, only the grave shall 

gain. 
Teuton and Frank in fierce embrace shall 

strew the fatal sod, 
And they shall live indeed who died to save 

their souls for God. 

Chorus. 

O Spirits turn and look no more and hark 
not to their cry, 



NAPOLEON FALLEN. 213 

A Hand is flashed before our eyes, a Shape 

goes sadly by. 
And as it goes, it looks on us with eyes that 

swim in tears, 
And bitter as the death-cry sounds the echo 

in our ears. 
O look no more and seek no more to read the 

days unborn, 
'Tis storm this night on the world's sea, and 

'twill be storm at morn. 
The Lord hath sent his breath abroad, and all 

the waves are stirr'd : 
Amid the tempest Liberty flies like a white 

sea-bird, 
And, while the heavens are torn apart and 

the fierce waters gleam, 
Doth up and down the furrow'd waves dart 

with a sea-bird's scream. 
O bow the head, and close the eyes, and pray 

a quiet prayer, 
But let the bitter curse of Man go by upon 

the air. 



2i 4 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

[NAPOLEON. An OFFICER. 
Napoleon. 
Is there no hope for France ? 

Officer. 

None. Yet I know not ! 
A nation thus miraculously strengthen'd, 
And acting in the fiercest wrath of love, 
Hath risen ere this above calamity, 
And out of anguish conjured victory. 
If strength and numbers, if the mighty hands 
Of the Briareus, shall decide the day, 
Then surely as the sun sets France must fall ; 
If love or prayer can make a miracle 
And bring an angel down to strike for her, 
Then France may rise again. 

Napoleon. 

Have we not proved 
Her children cowards ? Yea, by God ! Like 

dogs 
That rend the air with wrath upon the chain, 



NAPOLEON FALLEN. 215 

And being loosen'd slink before the thief, 
They fail'd me — those who led and those who 

follow' d ; 
Scarce knowing friend from foe, while inch by 

inch 
The Germans ate their ranks as a slow fire 
Devoureth wind-blown wheat. I cannot 

trust 
In France or Frenchmen. 

Officer. 
Sire 



Napoleon. 

Why dost thou hang 
Thy head, old friend, and look upon the 

ground ? 
Nay, if all Frenchmen had but hearts like 

thine, 
Then France were blest in sooth, and I, its 

master, 
Were safe against the swords of all the 

world. 



216 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

Officer. 

Sire, 'twas not that I meant — my life is 

yours 
To give or take, to blame or praise ; I 

blush' d 
Not for myself, but France. 

Napoleon. 

Then hadst thou cause 
For crimson cheeks indeed. 

Officer. » 

Sire, as I live, 

Thou wrongest her ! The breast whereon we 

grew 
Suckled no cowards. For one dizzy hour 
France totter'd, and look'd back; but now 

indeed 
She hath arisen to the very height 
Of her great peril. 

Napoleon. 

'Tis too late. She is lost. 
She did betray her master, and shall die. 



NAPOLEON FALLEX. 217 

Officer. 

Not France betrayed thee, Sire ; but rather 

those 
Whom thy most noble nature, royally based 
Above suspicion and perfidious fear, 
Welcom'd unto thy council ; not poor France, 
Whose bleeding wounds speak for her loud 

as tongues, 
Bit at the hand that raised her up so high ; 
Not France, but bastard Frenchmen, doubly 

damn'd 
Alike by her who bare them and by thee 
Who fed them. These betrayed thee to thy 

doom, 
And falling clutch'd at thine imperial crown, 
Dragging it with them to the bloody dust ; 
But these that held her arms like bands of 

lead 
Being torn from off her, France, unchain'd 

and free, 
Uplifts her pale front to the stars, and stands 
Serene in doom and danger, and sublime 
In resurrection. 



218 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

Napoleon. 

How the popular taint 
Corrupts the wholesome matter of thy mind ! 
This would be treason, friend, if we were 

strong — 
Now 'tis less perilous : the commonest wind 
Can blow its scorn upon the fallen. 

Officer. 

Sire, 

Behold me on my knees, tears in mine eyes, 

And sorrow in my heart. My life is thine, 

My life, my heart, my soul are pledged to 

thine ; 

And trebly now doth thy calamity 

Hold me thy slave and servant. If I pray, 

"lis that thou mayst arise, and thou shalt rise ; 

And if I praise our common mother, France, 

Who for the moment hath forgot her lord, 

'Tis that my soul rejoices for thy sake, 

That when thou comest to thine own again 

Thy realm shall be a realm regenerate, 

Baptized a fair thing worthy of thy love 

In its own blood of direful victory. 



NAPOLEON FALLEN. 219 

Napoleon. 

Sayest thou ? — Rise ! — Friend, thou art little 

skilled 
In reading that abstruse astrology 
Whereby our cunning politicians cast 
The fate of Kings. France robed in victory 
Is France for ever lost to our great house. 
France fallen, is France that with my secret 

hand 
I may uplift again. But tell thy tale 
Most freely : let thy soul beat its free wings 
Before me as it lists. Come ! as thou 

sayest, 
France is no coward ; — she hath at last 

arisen ; 
Nay, more — she is sublime. Proceed. 

Officer. 

My liege, 

God, ere he made me thy most loving servant, 

Made and baptized me, Frenchman ; and my 

heart, 

A soldier's heart, yearns out this day in pride 



220 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

To her who bare me, and both great and low 
My brethren. Courage is a virtue, Sire, 
Even in a wretched cause. In Strasbourg 

still 
Old Uhrich with his weight of seventy years 
Starves unsubdued, while the dull enemy 
Look on in wonder at such strength in woe ; 
Bazaine still keeps the glittering hosts at 

bay, 
And holds them with a watchful hand and 

eye; 
The captain of the citadel at Laon, 
Soon as the foeman gather'd on his walls, 
Illumed the hidden mine, and Frank and 

Teuton, 
With that they strove for, strew'd the path in 

death ; 
From Paris to the Vosges, loud and wild 
The tocsin rings to arms, and on the fields 
The fat ripe ear empties itself unreapt, 
While every man whose hand can grasp a 

sword 
Flocks to the petty standard of his town ; 
The many looms of the great factory 



XAPOLEOX FALLEN. 221 

Stand silent, but the fiery moulds of clay 
Are fashioning cannon, and the blinding 

wheels 
Are sharpening steel. In every market- 
place 
Peasant and prince are drilling side by side ; 
Roused from their wine-fed torpor, changed 

from swine 
To men, the very country burghers arm, 
Nay, what is more to them than blood, bleed 

gold 
Bounteously, freely. I have heard that 

priests, 
Doffing the holy cossack secretly, 
Shouting uplift the sword, and crying Christ 
To aid them strike for France. Only the 

basest, 
Only the scum, shrink now ; for even women, 
Catching the noble fever of the time, 
Buckle the war-belts round their lovers' 

waists, 
And clapping hands, with mingled cries and 

sobs, 
Urge young and old against the enemy. 



222 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

Napoleon. 

Of so much thunder may the lightning spring. 
I know how France can thunder, and I have 

felt 
How women's tongues can urge. But what 

of Paris ? 
What of the city of light ? How doth it bear 
The terror and the agony ? 

Officer. 

Most bravely, 
As doth become the glorious heart of France : 
Strong, fearless, throbbing with a martial 

might, 
Dispensing from its core the vital heat 
Which filleth all the members of the land ; 
Tho' even now the sharp steel pricks the 

skin, 
To stab it in its strength. 

Napoleon. 

Who holds the reins 
Within the gates \ 



NAPOLEON FALLEN. 223 

Officer. 
Trochu. 

Napoleon. 

Still r Why, how long 
Have the poor fools been constant ? Favre 

also ? 
Gambetta r Rochefort ? All these gentlemen 
Still flourish r And Thiers ? Hath the arch- 
schemer 
A seat among the gods, a place of rank 
With the ephemera \ 

Officer. 

Not so, my liege. 

Napoleon. 

Well, being seated on Olympus' top, 
What thunderbolts are France's puny Joves 
Casting abroad ? Or do they sit and quake 
For awe of their own voices, which in France, 
As in the shifting glaciers of the Alps, 
May bring the avalanche upon their heads ? 



224 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

Officer. 

The men, to do them justice, use their power 
Calmly and soldierly, and for a time 
Forget the bitter humours of the senate 
In the great common cause. Paris is strong, 
And full of noble souls. 



Napoleon. 

Paris must fall. 

Officer. 

Not soon, my liege — for she is belted round 
And arm'd impregnable on every side. 
Hunger and thirst may slay her, not the 

sword ; 
And ere the foeman's foot is heard within, 
Paris will spring upon her funeral pyre 
And follow Hope to heaven. Last week I 

walk'd 
Reading men's faces in the silent streets, 
And, as I am a soldier, saw in none 



XAPOLEON FALLEN. 225 

Fear or capitulation : very harlots 

Cried in their shame the name of Liberty, 

And, hustled from the gates, shriek' d out a 

curse 
Upon the coming Teuton : all was still 
And dreadful ; but the citizens in silence 
Drilled in the squares ; on the great boulevard 

groups 
Whisper' d together, with their faces pale 
At white heat ; in the silent theatre, 
Dim lit by lamps, were women, wives and 

mothers, 
Silently working for their wounded sons 
And husbands ; in the churches too they sat 
And wrought, while ever and anon a foot 
Rung on the pavement, and with sad red eyes 
They turn'd to see some armed citizen 
Kneel at his orisons or vespers. Nightly, 
Ere the moon rose, the City slept like death ; 
Yet as a lion sleeps, with half-shut eyes, 
Hearing each murmur on the weary wind, 
Crouching and ready for the spring. Each 

dawn 
I saw the country carts come rumbling in., 
Q 



226 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

And the scared country-folk, with large wild 

eyes 
And open mouths, who flock'd for shelter 

bringing 
Horrible tidings of the enemy 
Who had devoured their fields and happy 

homes. 
Then suddenly like a low earthquake came 
The rumour that the foe was at the gates ; 
And climbing a cathedral roof that night, 
I saw the pitch-black distance sown with fire 
Gleam phosphorescent like the midnight sea, 
And heard at intervals mysterious sound, 
Like far off thunder or the Atlantic waves 
Clashing on some great headland in a storm, 
Come smother'd from afar. But, lingering yet, 
I haunted the great City in disguise, 
While silently the fatal rings were wound 
Around about it by the Teuton hosts : 
Still, as I am a soldier, saw no face 
That look'd capitulation : rather saw 
The knitted eyebrow and the clenched teeth, 
The stealthy hand that fingered with the 

sword, 



XAPOLEON FALLEN. 227 

The eye that glanced as swift as hunger's doth 
Towards the battlements. Then (for at last 
A voice was raised against my life) I sought 
Trochu, my schoolfellow and friend in arms, 
And, though his brow darkened a moment's 

space, 
He knew me faithful and reached out his hand 
To save me. By his secret help I found 
A place in a balloon, that in the dusk 
Ere daylight rose upon a moaning wind 
And drifted southward with the drifting 

clouds ; 
And as the white and frosty daylight grew, 
And opening crimson as a rose's leaves 
The clouds to eastward parted, I beheld 
The imperial City, gables, roofs, and spires, 
White and fantastic as a city of dream, 
Gleam orient, while the muffled drums within 
Sounded reveille; then a red flash and wreath 
Of vapour broke across the outer line, 
Where the black fortifications frowning rose 
Ring above ring around the imperial gates, 
And flash on flash succeeded with a sound 
Most faint and lagging wearily behind. 



228 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

Still all without the City seemed as husht 
As sleep or death. But as the reddening 

day- 
Scattered the mists, the tiny villages 
Loomed dim ; and there were distant glim- 
merings, 
And far-off muffled sounds : yet scarce a sign 
Showed the innumerable enemy, — 
Who snugly housed and canopied with stone 
Lay hidden in their strength ; only the watch- 
fire 
Gleam'd here and there, only from place to 

place 
Masses of shadow seem'd to move, and 

light 
Was glittered dimly back from hidden steel ; 
And, woefullest sight of all, miles to the 

west, 
Along the dark line of the foe's advance, 
On the straight rim where earth and heaven 

meet, 
The forests blazed and to the driving clouds 
Cast blood-red phantoms growing dim in 
day. 



NAPOLEON FALLEX. 229 

Meantime, like one whirl'd in a dizzy dream, 
Onward we drove below the driving cloud, 
And from the region of the burning fire 
And smouldering hamlet rose still higher, and 

saw 
The white stars like to tapers burning out 
Above the region of the nether storm, 
And the illimitable ether growing 
Silent and dark in the deep wintry dawn. 

{Enter a Messenger. 
Messenger. 
Most weighty news, my liege, from Italy. 



Napoleon. 
Yes? 



Messenger. 

Rome is taken. The imperial walls 
Yawn where the cannon smote ; in the red 

streets 
Romans embracing shout for Liberty ; 



230 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

From Florence to Messina bonfires blaze, 
And rockets rise and wild shouts shake the 

air; 
And with the thunder in his aged ears, 
Surrounded by his cold-eyed Cardinals, 
Clutching his spiritual crown more close, 
Trembling with dotage, sits the grey-haired 

Pope 
Anathematizing in the Vatican. [Exit. 

Officer. 

Woe to the head on whom his curse shall 

fall, 
For in the day of judgment it shall be 
Better with Sodom and Gomorrah. Wait ! 
This is the twilight ; red will rise the dawn. 



Napoleon. 

Peace, friend ; yet if it ease thy heart, speak 

on. 
I would to God, I did believe in God 
As thou dost. Twilight surely — 'tis indeed 



NAPOLEON FALLEN. 231 

A twilight — and therein from their fair 

spheres 
Kings shoot like stars. How many nights of 

late 
The heavens have troubled been with fiery- 
signs, 
With characters like monstrous hieroglyphs, 
And the aurora, brighter than the day 
And red as blood, has burnt from west to 
east. 

Officer. 

I do believe the melancholy air 
Is full of pain and portent. 



Napoleon. 

Would to God 
I had more faith in God, for in this work 
I fail to trace His hand ; but rather feel 
The nether- shock of earthquake everywhere 
Shaking old thrones and new, those rear'd on 

rock 
As well as those on sand. All darkens yet, 



232 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

And in that darkness, while with cheeks of 

snow 
The affrighted people gaze at one another, 
The Teuton still, mouthing of Deity, 
Works steadfastly to some mysterious end. 
My heart was never Rome's so much as 

now, 
Now, when she shares my cup of agony. 
Agony ! Is this agony ? then indeed 
All life is agony. 

Officer. 

Your Imperial Highness 
Is suffering ! Take comfort, Sire. 

Napoleon. 

It is nought — 
Only a passing spasm at the heart — 
5 Tis my disease, comrade ; 'tis my disease ! 
So leave me : it is late ; and I would rest. 

Officer. 
God in his gracious goodness give thee health. 



NAPOLEON FALLEN. 233 



Napoleon. 



Pray that He may ; for am I deeply 

sick — 
Too sick for surgery — too sick for drugs — 
Too sick for man to heal. 'Tis a com- 
plaint 
Incident to our house ; and of the same 
Mine imperial uncle died. [Exit Officer. 

France in the dust, 
"With the dark Spectre of the Red above 

her! 
Rome fallen ! Aye me, well may the face of 

heaven 
Burn like a fiery scroll. Had I but eyes 
To read whose name is written next for 

doom ! 
The Teuton's ? O the Serpent, that has 

bided 
His time so long, and now has stabbed so 

deep ! 
Would I might bruise his head before I die ! 

{Exit. 



234 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 



Night. NAPOLEON sleeping. CHORUS of 
SPIRITS. 

A Voice. 

What shapes are ye whose shades darken his 
rest this night ? 



Chorus. 
Cold from the grave we come, out of the dark 
to the light. 

A Voice. 

Voices ye have that moan, and eyes ye have 

that weep, 
Ah ! woe for him who feels such shadows 

round his sleep ! 

Chorus. 
Tho' thou wert buried and dead, 

Still would we seek thee and find thee, 
Ever there follows the tread 

Of feet from the tomb behind thee ; 



XAPOLEOX FALLEN. 

Sleep, shall thy soul have sleep ? 

Nay, but be broken and shaken. 
Gather around him and weep, 

Trouble him till he awaken. 



A Voice. 

Who, in imperial raiment, darkly frowning- 
stand, 

Laurel-leaves in their hair, sceptred yet 
sword in hand. 

Another Voice. 

Who in their shadow looms, woman-eyed, 

woe-begone, 
And bares his breast to show the piteous 

wounds thereon ? 

Chorus. 

Peace, they are Kings, they are crowned ; 

Kings, tho' their realms have departed, 
Realms of the grave they have found, 

And they walk in the same heavy-hearted. 



236 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

Sleep ? did their souls have sleep ? 

Nay, for like his was their being. 
Gather around him and weep, 

Awake him to hearing and seeing. 



Spirit of Caesar. 

Greater than thou I fell. Die ; for thy day is 
o'er. 

Thou reap the world with swords ? thou wear 
the robe I wore ? 

Up like the bird of Jove, I rose from height to 
height, 

Poised on the heavenly air, eyes to the blood- 
red light ; 

Swift came the flash of wrath, one long- 
avenging glare — 

Down like a stone I fell, down thro' the 
dizzy air ; 

Dark burnt the heaven above, red ran the 
light of day, 

In the great square of Rome, bloody I fell, 
and lay. 



XAPOLEON FALLEX. 237 

Chorus. 
Kings of the realms of fear, 

Each the sad ghost of the other, 
One by one step near, 

Look in the eyes of a brother. 
Hush ! draw nearer and speak — 

And ere he waketh each morrow 
Blow on his bloodless cheek 

With the chilly wind of your sorrow. 

Spirit of Buonaparte. 

Greater than thou I fell. Die, Icarus, and 
give place. 

Thou take from my cold grave the glory and 
the grace ! 

Out of the fire I came, onward thro' fire I 
strode ; 

Under my path earth burnt, o'er it the pale 
stars glow'd ; 

Sun of the earth, I leapt up thro' the wonder- 
ing sky, 

Naming my name with God's, Kings knelt 
as I went by. 



238 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

Aye ; but my day declined ; — to one glad cry 

of the free 
My blood-red sunset died on the eternal Sea. 

A Voice. 
What spirit art thou, with cold still smile and 
face like snow? 

Spirit. 

Orsini ; -and avenged. Too soon I struck the 
blow. 

A Voice. 

And thou, with bleeding breast and eyes that 
roll in pain ? 

Spirit. 
I am that Maximilian, miserably slain. 

A Voice. 

And ye, O shadowy things, featureless, wild, 
and stark? 

Voices. 
We are the nameless ones whom he hath 
slain in the dark. 



NAPOLEON FALLEN. 239 

A Voice. 
Ye whom this man hath doom'd, Spirits, are 
ye all there ? 

Chorus. 
Not yet ; they come, they come — they darken 
all the air. 

A Voice. 
O latest come, and what are ye ? Why do ye 
moan and call r 

Chorus. 
O hush ! O hush ! they come to speak the 
bitterest curse of all. 

Spirits. 
With Sin and Death our mothers' milk was 

sour, 
The womb wherein we grew from hour to 
hour 
Gather'd pollution dark from the polluted 
frame — 
Beside our cradles naked Infamy 
Caroused, and Lust sat smiling hideously — 
We grew like evil weeds apace, and knew not 
1 me. 



240 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

With incantations and with spells most 

rank, 
The fount of Knowledge where we might 

have drank, 
And learnt to love the taste, was hidden from 

our eyes ; 
And if we learn' d to spell out written 

speech, 
Thy slaves were by, and we had books to 

teach 
Falsehood and Filth and Sin, Blasphemies, 

Scoffs, and Lies. 

We drank of poison, ev'n as flowers drink 

dew ; 
We ate and drank of poison till we grew 
Noxious, polluted, black, like that whereon 

we fed ; 
We never felt the light and the free 

wind — 
Sunless we grew, and deaf, and dumb, and 

blind- 
How should we dream of God, souls that were 

slain and dead ? 



NAPOLEON FALLEN. 241 

Love with her sister Reverence passed 

our way 
A.S angels pass unseen, but did not 

stay — 
We had no happy homes wherein to bid them 

dwell ; 
We turn'd from God's blue heaven with 

eyes of beast, 
We heard alike the atheist and the priest, 
And both these lied alike to smooth our 

hearts for Hell. 



Of some, both Soul and Body died ; of 

most, 

The Body fattened on, while the poqr 

ghost, 

v 

Prison'd from the sweet day, was withering in 
woe; 
Some robed in purple quaff 'd their fatal 

cup, 
Some out of rubied goblets drank it up — 
We did not know God was ; but now, O God, 
we know. 

R 



242 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

Lambs of thy flock, but oh ! not white and 

fair; 
Beasts of the field, tamed to thy hand, we 

were ; 
Not men and women — nay, not heirs to light 

and truth : 
Some fattening ate and fed ; some lay at 

ease ; 
Some fell and linger'd of a long disease ; 
But all look'd on the ground — beasts of the 

field forsooth. 

Ah woe, ah woe, for those thy sceptre 

swayed, 
Woe most for those whose bodies, fair 

arrayed, 
Insolent, sat at ease, smiled at thy feet of 

pride ; 
Woe for the harlots with their painted 

bliss ! 
Woe for the red wine-oozing lips they 

kiss ! 
Woe for the Bodies that lived, woe for the 

Souls that died ! 



NAPOLEON FALLEN. 243 

Semi-Chorus I. 

Tho' thou wert buried and dead, 

Still would they seek thee and find thee, 

Ever there follows the tread 

Of feet from the grave behind thee. 

Spirit of Hortense. 
Woe ! woe ! woe ! 

Semi-Chorus II. 

Ye who saw sad light fall, 

Thro' the chink of the dungeon gleaming. 
And watch'd your shade on the wall 

Till it took a sad friend's seeming ; 
Ye who in speechless pain 

Fled from the doom and the danger, 
And dragging a patriot's chain 

Died in the land of the stranger ; 
Men who stagger' d and died, 

Even as beasts in the traces, 
Women he set aside 

For the trade of polluting embraces, 



244 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

Say, shall his soul have sleep, 

Or shall it be troubled and shaken ? 



Chorus. 

Gather around him and weep, 
Trouble him till he awaken. 



NAPOLEON {awakening). 

Who's there ? Who speaks ? — All silent. O 

how slowly 
Moveth the dark and melancholy night ! 
I cannot rest — I am too sick at heart — 
I have had ill dreams. The inevitable 

Eyes 
Are watching, and the weary void of sleep 
Hath voices strangely sad. 

[He rises, and paces the chamber. 

O those dark years 

Of Empire ! He who tames the tiger, and 

lies 
Pillow'd upon its neck in a lone cave, 
Is safer. Who could sleep on such a bed ? 



NAPOLEON FALLEX. 245 

Mine eyes were ever dry of the pure dew 
God scatters on the lids of happy men ; 
Watching with fascinated gaze the orbs, 
Ring within ring of blank and bestial light, 
Where the wild fury slept : seeking all arts 
To soothe the savage instinct in its throes 
Of passionate unrest. One cold hand 

held 
Sweet morsels for the furious thing to lap, 
And with the other, held behind my back, 
I clutch'd the secret steel : oft, lest its 

teeth 
Should fasten on its master, cunningly 
Turning its wrath against the shapes that 

moved 
Outside its splendid lair ; until at last, 
Let forth to the mad light of War, it sprang 
Shrieking and sought to rend me. O thou 

beast ! 
Art thou so wild this day ? and dost thou 

thirst 
To fix on thine imperial ruler's throat ? 
Why, have I bidden thee " down," and thou 

hast crouch'd 



246 THE DRAMA OF KINGS, 

Tamely as any hound ! Thou shalt crouch 

yet. 
And bleed with shamfuller stripes ! 

Let me be calm, 
Not bitter. 'Tis too late for bitterness. 
Yet I could gnaw my heart to think how 

France 
Hath fail'd me ! nay, not France, but rather 

those 
Whom to high offices and noble seats 
In France's name I raised. I bought their 

souls — 
What soul can power not buy ?■ — and, having 

lost 
The blessed measure of all human truth, 
Being soulless, these betrayed me ; yea, 

became 
A brood of lesser tigers hungering 
With their large eyes on mine. I did not 

build 
My throne on sand ; no, no, — on Lies and 

Liars, 
Weaker than sand a thousandfold ! 



NAPOLEON FALLEN. 247 

In this 
I did not work for evil. Though my means 
Were dark and vile perchance, the end I 

sought 
Was France's weal, and underneath my care 
She grew as tame as any fatted calf. 
I never did believe in that stale cry 
Raised by the newsman and the demagogue, 
Tho' for mine ends I could cry " Liberty ! " 
As loud as any man. The draff of men 
Are as mere sheep and kine, with heads held 

down 
Grazing, or resting blankly ruminant. 
These must be tended, must be shepherded. 
But Frenchmen are as wild things scarcely 

tamed, 
Brute-like yet fierce, mad too with some few 

hours 
Of rushing freely with an angry roar. 
These must be awed and driven. By a 

scourge 
Dripping with sanguine drops of their own 

blood, 
I awed them : then I drove them : then in time 



248 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

I tamed them. Fool ! deeming them wholly 

mine, 
I sought to snatch a little brief repose ; 
But with a groan they found me, and I woke ; 
And since they seem'd to suffer pain I said 
" Loosen the yoke a little," and 'twas done, 
And they could raise their heads and gaze at 

me ; 
And the wild hunger deepen'd in their eyes, 
While fascinated on my throne I sat 
Forcing a melancholy smile of peace. 
O had I held the scourge in my right hand, 
Tighten'd the yoke instead of loosening, 
It had not been so ill with me as now ! 
But Pity found me with her sister Fear, 
And lured me. He who sitteth on a throne 
Should have no counsellers who come in 

tears ; * 
But rather that still voice within his brain, 
Imperturbable as his own cold eyes 
And viewless as his coldly flowing blood ; 
Rather a heart as strong as the great heart 
Driving the hot life through a lion's thews ; 
Rather a will that moves to its desire 



NAPOLEON FALLEN. 249 

As steadfast as the silent-footed cloud. 
What peevish humour did my mother mix 
With that immortal ichor of our race 
Which unpolluted fill'd mine uncle's veins ? 
He lash'd the world's Kings to his triumph- 
car 
And sat like marble while the fiery wheels 
Dript blood beneath him : tho' the live earth 

shriek'd 
Below him, he was calm, and like a god 
Cold to the eloquence of human tears, 
Cold to the quick, cold as the light of stars, 
Cold as the hand of Death on the damp 

brow, 
Cold as Death brooding on a battle-field 
In the white after-dawn, — from west to east 
Royal he moved as the red wintry sun. 
He never flatter'd Folly at his feet ; 
He never sought to syrup Infamy ; 
He, when the martyrs curst him, drew around 

him 
The purple of his glory and passed on 
Indifferently like Olympian Jove. 
There was no weak place in the steel he wore, 



250 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

Where woman's tongues might reach his 

mighty heart 
As they have reach' d at mine. O had I kept 
A heart of steel, a heart of adamant ; 
Had I been deaf to clamour and the peal 
Of peevish fools ; had I for one strong hour 
Conjured mine uncle's soul to mix with 

mine, 
Sedan had never slain me ! I am lost * 
By the damn'd implements mine own hands 

wrought — 
Things that were made as slavish tools of 

peace, 
Never as glittering weapons meet for war. 
He never stoop'd to use such peaceful 

tools ; 
But, for all uses, 
Made the sword serve him — yea, for sceptre 

and scythe ; 
Nay more, for Scripture and for counsellor. 

Yet he too fell. Early or late, all fall. 
No fruit can hang for ever on the tree. 
Daily the tyrant and the martyr meet 



XAPOLEOX FALLEX. 251 

Naked at Death's door, with the fatal mark 
Both brows being branded. Doth the world 

then slay 
Only its anarchs ? Doth the lightning flash 
Smite Caesar and spare Brutus ? Nay, by 

heaven ! 
Rather the world keeps for its paracletes 
Torture more subtle and more piteous doom 
Than it dispenses to its torturers. 
Tiberius, with his foot on the world's neck, 
Smileth his cruel smile and groweth grey, 
Half dead already with the weight of years 
Drinketh the death he is too frail to feel, 
While in his noon of life the Man Divine 
Hath died in anguish at Jerusalem. 
[He opens a Life of Jesus and reads. A long pause. 

Here too the Teuton works, crafty and slow, 

Anatomizing, gauging, questioning, 

Till that fair Presence which redeem'd the 

world 
Dwindles into a phantom and a name. 
Shall he slay Kings, and spare the King of 

Kings ? 



252 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

In her fierce madness, France denied her 

God, 
But the still Teuton doth destroy his God 
Coldly as he outwits an enemy. 
Yet doth he keep the Name upon his lips, 
And coldly dedicating the dull deed 
To the abstraction he hath christen' d God, 
To the creation of his cogent brain, 
Conjures against the blessed Nazarene, 
That pallid apparition masculine, 
That shining orb hem'd in with clouds of 

flesh; 
Till, darken'd with the woe of his own words, 
The fool can turn to Wilhelm's wooden face 
And Bismarck's crafty eyes, and see therein 
Human regeneration, or at least 
The Teuton's triumph mightier than Christ's. 
Lie there, Iconoclast ! Thou art thrice a fool, 
Who, having nought to set within its place 
But civic doctrine and a naked sword, 
Would tear from out its niche the piteous 

bust 
Of Him whose face was Sorrow's morning 
• star. [Takes up a second Book, and reads. 



NAPOLEON FALLEN. 253 

Mark, now, how speciously Theology, 
Leaving the broken fragments of the Life 
Where the dull Teuton's hand hath scatter' cl 

them, 
Takes up the cause in her high fields of air. 
" Darkness had lain upon the earth like blood, 
And in the darkness human things had 

shriek'd 
And felt for God's soft hand, and agonised. 
But overhead the awful Spirit heard, 
Yet stirred not on His throne. Then lastly, 

One 
Dropt like a meteor stone from suns afar, 
And stirred and stretch'd out hands, and 

lived, and knew 
That Lie indeed had dropt from suns afar, 
That He had fallen from the Father's breast 
Where He had slumber' d for eternities. 
Hither in likeness of a Man He came — 
He, Jesus, wander'd forth from heaven and 

said, 
' Lo, I, the deathless one, will live and die ! 
Evil must suffer — Good ordains to suffer — 
Our point of contact shall be suffering, 



254 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

There will we meet, and ye will hear my voice ; 
And my low tones shall echo on thro' time, 
And one salvation proved in fatal tears 
Be the salvation of Humanity.' " 

Ah, old Theology, thou strikest home ! 

" Evil must suffer — Good ordains to suffer " — 

Sayst thou ? Did He then quaff His cup of 

tears 
Freely, who might have dash'd it down, and 

ruled ? 
The world was ready with an earthly crown, 
And yet He wore it not. Ah, He was wise ! 
Had He but sat upon a human throne, 
With all the kingdom's beggars at His feet, 
And all its coffers open at His side, 
He had died more shameful death, yea, He 

had fallen 
Even as the Csesars. Rule the world with 

Love ? 
Tame savage human nature with a kiss ? 
Turn royal cheeks for the brute mob to smite ? 
He knew men better, and He drew aside, 
Ordain'd to do and suffer, not to reign. 



XAPOLEON FALLEN. 255 

My good physician bade me search in 
books 
For solace. Can I find it ? Verily, 
From every page of all man's hand hath writ 
A dark face frowns, a voice moans "Vanity !" 
There is one Book — one only — that for ever 
Passeth the understanding and appeaseth 
The miserable hunger of the heart — 
Behold it — written with the light of stars 
By God in the beginning. 

• [Looks forth. A starry night. 

I believe 
God is, but more. I know not, save but this — 
He passeth not as men and systems pass, 
For while all change the Law by which they 

change 
Survives and is for ever, being God. 
Our sin, our loss, our misery, our death, 
Are but the shadows of a dream : the hum 
Within our ears, the motes within our eyes ; 
Death is to us a semblance and an end, 
But is as nothing to that central Law 
Whereby we cannot die. 



256 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

Yonder blue dome, 
Gleaming with meanings mystically wrought, 
Hath been from the beginning, and shall be 
Until the end. How many awe-struck eyes 
Have look'd and spelt one word — the name of 

God, 
And call'd it as they listed, Law, Fate, Change, 
And marvell'd for its meaning till they died, 
And others came and stood upon their graves 
And read in their turn, and marvelling gave 

place. 
The Kings of Israel watch'dit with wild orbs, 
Madden'd, and cried the Name, and drew the 

sword. 
Above the tented plain of Troy it bent 
After the sun of day had set in blood. 
The superstitious Roman look'd by night 
And trembled. All these faded phantom- 
like, 
And lo ! where it remaineth, watch' d with 

eyes 
As sad as any of those this autumn night, — 
The Higher Law writ with the light of Stars 
By God in the beginning . . . 



NAPOLEON FALLEN. 257 

Let me sleep ! 
Or I shall gaze and gaze till I grow wild 
And never sleep again. Too much of God 
Maketh the heart sick. Come then forth, 

thou charm, 
Thou silent spell wrung from the blood-red 

flower, 
With power to draw the curtains of the soul 
And shut the inevitable Eyes away. 

Dead mother, at thy knees I said a prayer- — 
Lead me not into temptation, and, O God, 
Deliver me from evil. Is it too late 
To murmur it this night ? This night, O 

God, 
Whate'er Thou art and whereso'er Thou art, 
This night at least, when I am sick and fallen, 
Deliver me from evil ! 

CHORUS. 
Under the Master's feet the generations 
Like ants innumerably come and go : 
He leans upon a Dial, and in patience 
Watches the hours crawl slow, 
s 



258 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

In His bright hair the eternal stars are burn- 
ing, 
Around His face heaven's glories burn 
sublime : 
He heeds them not, but follows with eyes 
yearning 
The shadow men call Time. 



Some problem holds Him, and He follows 
dreaming 
The lessening and lengthening of the 
shade. — 
Under His feet, ants from the dark earth 
streaming, 
Gather the men He made. 

He heeds them not nor turns to them His 
features — 
They rise, they crawl, they strive, they run, 
they die ; 
How should He care to look upon such crea- 
tures, 
Who lets great worlds roll by ? 



XAPOLEON FALLEN. 259 

He shall be nowise heard who calls unto Him, 
He shall be nowise seen who seeks His face; 

The problem holds Him — no mere man may- 
woo Him, 
He pauseth in His place. 



So hath it been since all things were created, 
No change on the immortal Face may fall, 

Having made all, God paused and fascinated 
Watch'd Time, the shade of all. 



Call to the Maker in thine hour of trial, 
Call with a voice of thunder like the sea 

He watches living shadows on a Dial, 
And hath no ears for thee. 



He watches on — He feels the still hours 
fleeing, 

He heeds thee not, but lets the days drift by ; 
And yet we say to thee, O weary being, 

Blaspheme not, lest thou die. 



260 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

Rather, if woe be deep and thy soul wander, 
Ant among ants that swarm upon a sod, 

Watching thy shadow on the grass-blade, 
ponder 
The mystery with God. 

So may some comfort reach thy soul way- 
faring, 
While the days run and the swift glories 
shine, 
And something God-like shall that soul grow, 
sharing 
The attitude divine. 

Silent, supreme, sad, wondering, quiescent, 
Seeking to fathom with the spirit-sight 

The problem of the Shadow of the Present 
Born of eternal Light. 



CHORIC INTERLUDE 

THE TWO VOICES. 



CHORIC INTERLUDE: 

THE TWO VOICES. 

Semi-Chorus I. 

Spirit of England, art thou sleeping ? 

Soul of the Ocean, art thou fled ? 
Behold thy Sister is wailing and weeping ; 
The waves are leaping, the storm is creeping 

Hither to burst on thy helmless head. 
England, awake ! for the sword gleams over 

thee — 
Awake, awake ! or the tomb shall cover 
thee — 

England, awake ! — if thou be not dead. 
The waves are crying, the clouds are flying, 

Fair France is dying — her blood flows red , 
Europe in thunder is rent asunder, 

But the mother of nations is lying dead. 



264 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 



Semi-Chorus II. 

Weep; and pray that our tears may wake 
her; 
Pray ; — tho' prayers have been vain of old ; 
Scream ; — tho' the thunder is weak to shake 

her — 
In the name of the Maker, awake her, awake 
her : 
The storm hath struck — let the bells be 
toll'd. 
England, awake ! they are weaving a shroud 

for thee ; 
Awake, awake, we are wailing aloud for 
thee: 
They will bury thee quick, for thy pulse is 
cold. 
O God! to be sleeping, with thy children 
weeping, 
And the red death leaping round farm and 
fold: 
Dark is the motion of heaven and ocean. 
Why is the mother of nations cold ? 



CHORIC INTERLUDE. 265 

First Voice. 

Fly to me, England ! . . . Hie to me 

Now in mine hour of woe ; 
Haste o'er the sea, ere I die, to me ; 
Swiftly, my Sister ; stand nigh to me, 

Help me to strike one blow ! 

Over the land and the water, 

Swifter than winds can go, 

Up the red furrows of slaughter, 

Down on the lair of the foe : 

Now, when my children scream madly and 

cling to me ; 
Now, when I droop o'er the dying they bring 

to me ; 
Come to me, England ! O speak to me, spring 
to me ! 

Hurl the invader low ! 



Second Voice. 

Woe to thee ! I would go to thee 

Faster than wind can flee, 
Doth not my fond heart flow to thee r 



266 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

Would I might rise and show to thee 

All that my love would be ! 
But behold, they bind me and blind me ; 

Cowards, yet born of me : 
They fasten my hands behind me — 
I am chain'd to a rock in the sea. 
Alas ! what availeth my grief while I sigh for 

thee? 
Traitors have trapt me — I struggle, I cry for 

thee; 
Come to thee, Sister ? — yea, were it to die for 
thee! 

O that my hands were free ! 

First Voice. 

Pray for me, Sister ! say for me 

Prayers until help is nigh ; 
Send thy loud voice each way for me, 
Trouble the night and the day for me, 

Waken the world and the sky ; 
Say that my heart is broken, 

Say that my children die, 
With blood and tears for thy token, 



CHORIC INTERLUDE. 267 

Plead till the nations reply ; 
Plead to the sea and the earth and the air for 

me — 
Move the hard heart of the world till it care for 

me — 
Come to me, England ! — at least, say a prayer 
for me, 

Startle the winds with a cry. 



Second Voice. 

Doom on me, Hell's own gloom on me, 

Blood and a lasting blame ! 
Already the dark days loom on me, 
Cold as the shade of the tomb on me ; 

I am call'd by the coward's name. 
Shall I heark to a murder'd nation ? 

Shall I sit unarm'd and tame ? 
Then woe to this generation, 

Tho' out of my womb they came. 
Betrayed by my children, I wail and I call for 

thee; 
Not tears, but my heart's blood, O Sister, 
should fall for thee : 



268 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

My children are slaves, or would strike one 
and all for thee : 
Shame on them! shame! shame! shame ! 



First Voice. 

Pain for thee ! all things wane for thee 

In truth, if this be so ; 
Fatal will be the stain for thee : 
Wild tears mine eyes shall rain for thee 

Since thou art left so low ; 
For death can come once only, 

Tho' bitterly comes the blow ; 
But shame abideth, and lonely 
Feels a sick heart come and go. 
Homeless and citiless, yet I can weep for 

thee ; 
Fast comes the morrow with anguish most 

deep for thee ; 
Dying, I mourn for the sorrow they heap for 
thee. 

Thine is the bitterest woe. 



CHORIC INTERLUDE. 269 



Second Voice. 

Mourn me not, Sister, scorn me not ! 

Pray yet for mine and me ! 
Tho' the old proud fame adorn me not, 
The sore grief hath outworn me not — 

Wait ; I will come to thee ; 
I Yv T ill rend my chains asunder, 

I will tear my red sword free, 
I will come with mine ancient thunder, 
I will strike the foe to his knee. 
Yea, tho' the knife of the butcher is nigh to 

thee ; 
Yea, while thou screamest and echoes reply to 

thee ; 
Comfort, O France! 'for, in God's name, I fly 
to thee, 

Sword in hand, over the sea. 



Semi-Chorus I. 

Spirit of England, false vows wrong her ! 
Peace ; she waiteth in vain for thee. 



270 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

Semi-Chorus II. 

Ah, that thy voice is a spell no longer, 
Ah, that the days of thy truth should flee. 

Chorus. 

Sing a song, her heart to make stronger, 
Sing what the perfect State should be. 

Semi-Chorus I. 

Spirit of England, thou whose hoary 

Cliffs gleam bright to the gleaming sea — 



Semi-Chorus II. 

Shut thy coffers and think of glory, 
Nor pray beside them on bended knee. 



Chorus. 

Read in sorrow thine own bright story, 
Queen of the States that were brave and free. 



CHORIC INTERLUDE. 

Choric Epode. 

Where is the perfect State 
Early most blest and late, 

Perfect and bright ? 
Tis where no Palace stands 
Trembling on shifting sands 

Morning and night. 
'Tis where the soil is free, 
Where, far as eye may see, 
Scatter'd o'er hill and lea, 

Homesteads abound ; 
Where clean and broad and sweet 
(Market, square, lane, and street, 
Belted by leagues of wheat), 

Cities are found. 



Where is the perfect State 
Early most blest and late 

Gentle and good ? 
'Tis where no lives are seen 
Huddling in lanes unseen, 

Crying for food ; 



272 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

"Tis where the home is pure, 
"lis where the bread is sure, 
Tis where the wants are fewer, 

And each want fed ; 
Where plenty and peace abide, 
Where health dwells heavenly-eyed, 
Where in nooks beautified 

Slumber the Dead. 



Where is the perfect State 
Unvexed by Wrath and Hate, 

Quiet and just ? 
Where to no form of creed 
Fetter'd are thought and deed, 

Reason and trust ? 
'Tis where the great free mart 
Broadens, while from its heart 
Forth the great ships depart, 

Blown by the wind ; 
'Tis where the wise men's eyes, 
Fixed on the earth and skies, 
Seeking for signs, devise 

Good for mankind. 



CHORIC INTERLUDE. 273 

Where is the perfect State, 
Holy and consecrate, 

Blessedly wrought r 
'Tis where all waft abroad 
Wisdom and faith in God, 

Beautiful thought. 
'Tis where the poet's sense 
Deepens in reverence, 
While to his truths intense 

Multitudes turn. 
Where the bright sons of art, 
Walking in street or mart, 
Feel mankind's reverent heart 

Tremble and yearn. 

Say, is the perfect State, 
Strong and self-adequate, 

There where it stands, 
Perfect in praise of God, 
Casting no thoughts abroad 

Over the lands ? 
Nay ; for by each man's side 
Hangeth a weapon tried ; 
Nay, for wise leaders guide 
T 



274 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

Under the Lord. 
Nor, when a people cries, 
Smiling with half-shut eyes 
Waiteth this State, — but flies, 

Lifting the Sword. 

Where is the perfect State r 
Not where men sit and wait, 

Selfishly strong ; 
While some lost sister State 
Crieth most desolate, 

Ruin'd by wrong : 
Not where men calmly sleep, 
Tho' all the world should weep 
Not where they merely heap 

Gold in the sun : 
Not where in charity 
Men with mere dust are free, 
When o'er the weary sea 

Murder is done. 



Which is the perfect State ? 
Not the self-adequate 



CHORIC INTERLUDE. 

Coward and cold ; 
Xot the brute thing of health, 
Swollen with gather'd wealth, 

Sleepy and old. 
Nay, but the mighty land 
Ever with helping hand, 
Ever with flaming brand, 

Rising in power : 
This is the fair and great, 
This the evangel State, 
Letting no wrong' d land wait 

In the dark hour. 



This is the perfect State, 
Early in arms and late ; 

Blessed at home ; — 
Ready at Freedom's cry 
Forward to fare and die, 

Over the foam. 
Loving States great and small, 
Loving home best of all, 
Yet at the holy call 

Springing abroad : 



76 



THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 



This is the royal State, 
Perfect and adequate, 
Equal to any fate, 
Chosen of God ! 



THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

Part III. 
THE TEUTON AGAINST PARIS. 



SPEAKERS. 

The Kaiser. 

3 axd Leaders of the German Host. 
The Royal Chancellor. 
a bonapartist officer. 
Protestant Priests. 
Choristers. 
A French Deputy. 
The Governor of Paris. 
A Deserter. 
Messengers. 
Chorus of Sisters of the Red Cross. 



SCENE — The German Camp before Paris. 
Time— Winter, 187 1. 



SCENE.— HEIGHTS BEFORE PARIS, AND 
EXTERIOR OF A PALACE. A Winter's 
Night. 

Chorus of Sisters of the Red Cross. 



CHORUS. 

City of loveliness and light and splendour, 
City of Sorrows, hearken to our cry ; 
O Mother tender, 
O mother marvellously fair, 
And fairest now in thy despair, 
Look up ! O be of comfort ! Do not die ! 
Let the black hour blow by. 

Cold is the night, and colder thou art lying. 
Gnawing a stone sits Famine at thy feet 
Shivering and sighing ; 
Blacker than Famine, on thy breast, 
Like a sick child that will not rest. 



282 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

Moans Pestilence; and hard by, with 
fingers fleet, 
Frost weaves his winding-sheet. 

Snow, snow : the wold is white as one. cold 
lily. 
Snow: it is frozen round thee as hard as 
lead ; 

The wind blows chilly ; 
Thou liest white in the dim night, 
And in thine eyes there is no light, 
And the Snow falleth, freezing on thy head 
And covering up thy dead. 

Ah, woe ! thy hands, no longer flower-bearing, 
Press stony on thy heart; and thy heart 
bleeds ; 

Thine eyes despairing 
Watch while the fierce Fire clings and 

crawls 
Through falling roofs and crumbling 
walls. 
Ah, woe! to see thee thus, the wild soul 
pleads, 

The wild tongue intercedes. 



THE TEUTON AGAINST PARIS. 2S3 

O, we will cry to God, and pray and plead for 
thee ; 
We with a voice that troubles heaven and 
air 

Will intercede for thee; 
We will cry for thee in thy pain 
Louder than storm and wdnd and rain ; 
What shape among the nations may com- 
pare 

With thee, most lost, most fair ? 

Yea, thou hast sinned and fallen, O City 
splendid, 
Yea, thou hast passed through days of 
shamefullest woe — 

And lo ! they are ended — 
Famine for famine, flame for flame, 
Sorrow for sorrow, shame for shame, 
Verily thou hast found them all ; — and lo ! 
Night and the falling snow. 

Let Famine eat thy heart, let Fire and Sorrow 
Hold thee, but turn thy patient eyes and see 
The dim sweet morrow. 



284 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

Better be thus than what thou wast, 
Better be stricken and overcast, 
Martyr'd once more, as when to all things 
free 

Thy lips cried " Liberty ! " 

Let the Snow fall ! thou shalt be sweeter and 
whiter ; 
Let the Fire burn ! under the morning sky 
Thou shalt look brighter. 
Comfort thy sad soul through the night ; 
Turn to the east and pray for light ; 
Look up ! O be of comfort ! do not die ! 
Let the black hour blow by ! 

Chorus. The Royal Chancellor. 
Chorus. 

See where slow-footed, silent, and alone, 
Cometh the grim gray soul of all this woe. 
He climbs the knoll, and in the frosty moon- 
light 
Standing gigantic, looketh silently 
On the imperial City that afar 
Looms as a phantasm through the vitreous air. 



THE TEUTON AGAINST PARIS. 285 

Chancellor. 

Paris ! they did not lie who call'd thee fair ; 
And never wert thou fairer than this night 
When God and Man conspire to write thy 
doom. 

Chorus. 

He speaks ; and brightly on his glittering 

helm, 
And on his frosty face and grizzled beard, 
Glimmers the silver radiance of the moon. 

Chancellor. 

What women are ye ? — who, clad like Hecate, 
Gather and turn your faces white one way, 
Hither, like lilies wind-blown on a mere ? 

Chorus. 
Poor sisters, bearing in our hands the Cross. 

Chancellor. 
What do ye abroad, at midnight, and alone r 



286 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

Chorus. 
Searching the heaps of slain lest any live. 

Chancellor. 

From what land are ye ? Children of what 
mother ? 

Chorus. 

Daughters of France, for whom we weep this 
night. 

Chancellor. 

Weep not for France, She reapeth her own 
seed. 

Chorus. 

Yea — but we sicken, lest she wholly die. 

Chancellor. 

Die \ Let France die ; for she hath lived too 

long, 
The white-skin'd Leper of a wholesome 

world, 



THE TEUTON AGAINST PARIS. 287 

Creeping from porch to porch of peaceful 

dwellings, 
Clad in fine linen and with scented locks, 
Leaving in her foul trail disease and doom, 
Heart-eating ennui, and accurst desire 
Bred of the marrow of corrupted bones. 
Die r If a dagger-stroke could slay this 

France, 
This unclean harlot, this infecting fraud, 
Envenoming all lips that she doth kiss, 
Cursing the lips that will not kiss at all, 
I would strike home this night unto her heart, 
And bury her to the deep and solemn sound 
Of thanksgiving from a world purified. 
But since I cannot slay her as I would, 
Since she is many-lived and subtle and 

quick, 
We will try Fire, and let it on her heel 
Fasten like a red wolf and drag her down ; 
And in her snake's-eyes we will flash the 

sword 
So that she screams remembering her sins ; 
And she shall see those Temples desolate 
Wherein she sat with sick face altar-wards 



288 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

Worshipping Thammuz and all gods ob- 
scene ; 

And while she moans, out of the earth shall 
steal 

Famine, and like a toad slip down her throat, 

And in the belly of her coil and spit ; 

Frost too shall fasten on her quivering 
limbs, 

And slowly, with blunt teeth, bite to the 
bone; 

And then, perchance in the eleventh hour, 

This France may gaze upon the world she 
curst, 

And pray to God to heal her long disease, 

Or send swift lightning down, and let her 
die! 

Chorus. 
Why art thou bitter ? Is thy wrong so great ? 



Chancellor. 
Mountainous, women ; and revenge is sweet. 



THE TEUTON AGAIXST PARIS. 289 

Chorus. 

Name not revenge, but give thy wrong a 
name. 

Chancellor. 
I am a Teuton — see, my wrong is said. 

Chorus. 
Teuton or Frank, utter thy wrong from France. 

Chancellor. 

Then listen. Ye are women, and ye weep 
For France who bare ye; I am a man, and 

born 
Out of a fruitful and a perfect womb ; 
And not with feverish fancies, peevish care, 
Nor yet with easy tears, yet passing well, 
In mine own fashion, more with deeds than 

words, 
I cling to her that bare me — Germany, — 
Yea, she who yonder sits beside the Rhine, 
u 



290 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

And with large eyes that measure heaven and 

earth 
Looks hither. Shall I tell an old wife's tale 
Of how your France in her most drunken 

hour 
Sprang to our vineyards, to our tranquil fields, 
And struck, with all a furious harlot's hate 
For what is purer than her own foul self, 
At the great mother, — slew her shrieking 

children, — 
Drove her from lair to lair across the dark 
Hungry and naked, while the moaning babe 
Drank from her wounded breast not milk but 

blood ? 
Shall I remind ye of that fiery scourge 
France held with maniac-strength to lash 

the world, 
Till the world rose, and tore it from her grasp, 
And flung it far into the silent sea ? 
Or of that other meaner, gaudier whip, 
A baby's rattle, a mere infant's toy, 
Snatch'd from her trembling hand and flung 

despised 
Into a corner only yesterday ? 



THE TEUTON AGAIXST PARIS. 291 

These things are stories for old men to 

tell, 
Women to wonder at, and bards to rhyme. 
How ! shall a harlot threaten all earth's 

kings ? 
What ! shall a painted reveller of the stews, 
Full-teeth'd with all the spitefulness of lust, 
Crawl with a dagger up and down the earth 
So that no mortal man can sleep at night ? 
Shall France, this Messalina of the nations, 
This thing of many lovers, luring all, 
Constant to none, adulterous with all, 
Constant to nothing but inconstancy, 
Shall this crown'd strumpet break the peace- 
ful air 
Now with red revel, now with the sharp 

sword, 
Just as the whim comes, as the wine inspires, 
As peevish passion and unnatural lust, 
Impotent to allay their own foul fire, 
Urge on and prompt the miserable will ? 
No, but an arm, a man's hand clad in mail, 
Hath struck one blow, and there the scarecrow 
lies, 



292 THE DRAMA, OF KINGS. 

And I, and every man that walks the world, 
May sleep more freely now this thing is done. 



Chorus. 

If it be so, then leave her now to God — 
Nor trample on a thing so wholly fallen. 



Chancellor. 
Nay, God's avenging Furies first shall work. 

Chorus. 
To what avail, since she is impotent ? 

Chancellor. 
That she may taste the cup of ills she gave. 

Chorus. 
She hath drunk deep ; O let her drink no 



THE TEUTON AGAINST PARIS. 293 



Cha:\ t cellor. 

Tis but begun. She must be bound with 

cords, 
And gagged, and stript of all her gauds and 

gold. 

Chorus. 

Ah, woe ! what shall she do thus bound and 
stript ? 

Chancellor. 

Her sons shall till the ground and fill her 

mouth, 
Her daughters weave her homely homespun 

raiment, 
And when she hath knelt and sworn a mighty 

oath, 
And writ this oath upon a charter down, 
Why we may loose her bonds and set her 

free. 

Chorus. 
To wander out o'er the waste world in shame. 



294 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 



Chancellor. 

Peace, women ; for these things shall come to 

pass, 
Since it is written he who cares to sow 
Shall reap the harvest, be it grain or 

weed. 
Let France walk forth in sackcloth, let her 

wrists 
Wear gyves ; set, too, a fool's-cap on her 

head, 
With " Glory " for a label writ in blood ; 
Then let a trumpeter before her go, 
And let him sound, and between whiles 

aloud 
Read the long record of enormities, 
And ending each, strike sharply with the 

scourge 
On the bare shoulders of the penitent ; 
And let the little children of the earth 
Follow and point, while good wives raise their 

hands, 
And honest burghers nodding pipe in mouth, 



THE TEUTON AGAIXST PARIS. 295 

Standing at doors with broad good-humour'd 

stare, 
Mutter aloud, " Thank God ! the world is free ! " 



CHORUS. 

Mother ! faintly on thy dark towers beaming 

Yonder moon is sailing eastward slow ; 
All around thee silent hills are dreaming, 

Coldly sheeted in the wintry snow ; 
From thy husht heart stealing to the ocean, 
Underneath the blue ice dimly gleaming, 
Crawls the river with a serpent motion, 
Wafting the chill whisper of thy woe. 

O for words to shine upon and cheer thee 

Where thou liest dark and desolate ! 
Mother ! shapes not human gather near thee, 
Crouch'd beneath the night-shade of thy 
fate; 
Spirits watch thee where thou liest stricken. 
Pray, and while thou prayest they shall hear 
thee — 



296 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

Comfort ! — they who strike thee may be 
stricken, 
Gathering like storm-clouds at thy gate. 



On thy crownless head are dust and ashes, 
On thy fair white throat are marks of 
flame — 
Low thou liest, drooping proud eyelashes, 
Clenching hands and heaving breasts in 
shame ; 
Naked to the frost-wind art thou lying ; 
Snow-white is thy face, and yet it flashes, 
Answering the last look of the dying, 

"While they seek thine eyes and name thy 
name. 



Tis a name that shook the trembling 
nations 
Trumpeted upon the heights of old ; 
'Tis a name the earth with acclamations 
Murmured, dancing round thy Throne of 
Gold; 



THE TEUTON AGAINST PARIS. 297 

'Tis the name of earth's sublimest schemer ; 
'Tis the name that freed the generations : 
Still the same, grown sadder and supremer, 
Blesseder, O Martyr, twenty-fold. 



By the flag with thine own heart's-blood 
gory, 

Lifted up and waved in the world's eyes ; 
By the strange and ne'er forgotten story 

Of the flight of Kings and death of Lies ; 
By the light that never since hath dwin- 
dled, 
Man again shall see thee in thy glory ; 
By the fire upon the mountains kindled — 

Beautiful, a Queen, thou shalt arise. 



Bitterer than gall have been the days for 
thee, 
Yet they shall be blessed days indeed, 
For the very blood thereof shall raise for 
thee 
Men and women of diviner seed. 



298 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

Weary of fulfilling what was written, 
Even the Avenging Angel prays for thee ! 
Smiter of the nations, thou art smitten — 
Freer of the nations, be thou freed ! 



Meantime, sleep ! — worn with thy weary 
yearning — 

Sleep a space beneath the stars this night ; 
With thy many watch-fires dimly burning, 

Scatter'd red upon the wold snow-white, 
Slumber in the dark, O mother City ! 
O'er thee, dim and strange to our discerning, 
Miraculously fair, a Shape of Pity 

Waiteth with a drawn Sword and a Light. 

Blessed is the Light in his hand swinging, 
Waving bright white pinions like a dove ; 

Blessed is the Sword that he is bringing, 
Such as holy spirits wield above ; 

Such another brand arose in beauty 

O'er the Gate of Paradise up-springing. 

Mother, hearken — it is the Sword of Duty ; 
Mother, hearken — it is the Light of Love ! 



THE TEUTON AGAINST PARIS. 299 

Awakening, in one strong hand, O mother, 

Take the shining weapon of the free, 
And the sweet Lamp grasping in the other, 

Lift it high that all the world may see. 
Bought with bloody tears and bitterest sor- 
row, 
They are thine for ever, martyr-mother ! 
Thou shalt wear them on some golden mor- 
row, 
Dawn shall come, the storm of God shall 
flee. 



And because thy queenly robe is riven, 

Thou shalt win a raiment star-enwrought — 
Under the new dawn and the blue heaven 
Thou shalt wear this raiment blood hath 
bought ; 
Further, since thy heart hath cast off weak- 
ness, 
For thy forehead shall a crown be given. 
Mother, hearken — it is the Robe of Meekness ; 
Mother, hearken — it is the Crown of 
Thought ! 



300 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

O, but all the nations shall adore thee 

When thy days of bitterness are fled ; 
With the Robe of Meekness shining o'er 
thee, 
With the Lamp of Love to light thy tread, 
Clad in lily raiment, O my mother, 
Holding in one hand the light before thee, 
Lifting up the bright Sword in the other, 
Smiling, with the Crown upon thy head ! 

Dream of it this night, O queen of nations, — 
Dream of it, tho' crusht and undertrod, — 

Freer of the souls of generations, 

Raise that face of sorrow from the sod ; 

Casting off thy sins and thy disgraces, 

Issuing from utter tribulations, 

Struggling from the serpent's fierce embraces, 
Pass along the narrow path of God. 

The ROYAL CHANCELLOR. 

How long shall I to this sick world, this 

mass 
Of social sores, this framework of disease, 



THE TEUTON AGAINST PARIS. 301 

This most infected many-member'd earth, 
Play the hard surgeon, dexterous in my 

craft, 
Impassive, smiling with a shrunken heart, 
And hated by the very thing I cure ? 
"Why now, this night a pen-stroke like a 

knife 
Falls, and at dawn the people corporate 
May feel one limb the less; should the pen 

fail, 
A sword-stroke settles all, and the rich life 
That oozed into the limb and wasted there, 
Withdrawn into the body of the state 
Deepens the blood to livelier crimson, strikes 
Fresh thrills of fire through the electric brain. 
Europe forsooth is piteously sick, 
Polluted every fibre with old sores 
And new diseases, and I shall not fail 
In my cold healing mission, though it 

yields 
Its life up, agonizing 'neath my hand. 

To stand this night alone with Destiny, 
Alone in all the world beneath the stars, 



302 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

And hold the string that makes the puppets 

dance, 
Is something; but to feel the steadfast 

will 
Deepen, the judgment clear itself, the gaze 
Grow keener, all the purpose that was 

dim 
Brighten distinct in the serene still light 
Of conquest — that is more ; more than all 

power, 
More than lip-homage, more than crowns and 

thrones, 
More than the world ; for it is life indeed. 
O how the dreams and hopes and plans 

cohere ! 
How the great phalanx broadens ! Like a 

wave 
It washes Europe, and before its sweep 
The lying idolSj based on quicksand, shift, 
Totter, and fall : strewn with the wreck and 

dead, 
It shrieks and gathers up a flashing crest 
In act to drown the lingering life of France. 
Wave of the Teuton, is it wonderful 



THE TEUTON AGAINST PARIS. 303 

The grand old King sees in thy victory 
The strength and wrath of God ? 

Here then I pause 
And let me whisper it to mine own heart; 
I tremble. I have played with fire ; behold, 
It hath devour'd God's enemy and mine ; 
And tamely at my bidding croucheth now 
With luminous eyes half closed. This fire is 

Truth, 
And by it I shall rise or fall. This fire 
Is very God's — I know it ; and thus far 
God to my keeping hath committed it. 
What next r and next ? There at my feet 

lies France, 
Bound, stricken, screaming, — yonder, good as 

dead, 
Pluckt of his fangs, the imperial adder crawls, 
Tame as a mouse. I have struck down these 

twain, 
The Liar, and the creature of the Liar ; 
I have slain these twain with an avenging 

flame, 
And while I stand victorious comes a voice 



304 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

Out of the black abysses of the earth 
Whereat I pause and tremble. 'Tis so 

easy 
To cast down Idols ! The tide so pitilessly 
Washes each name from the waste sands of 

time ! 
'Twas yestermorn the Man of Mysteries fell — 
Whose turn comes next ? 

Not thine, not thine, at least, 

sovereign Lord and King ! thou great grey 

head, 
Simple and child-like in the aureole 
Thou deemest holy, — no, thou shalt not fall ; 
But rather, like Empedocles of old, 

1 who have led thee on, thy loving slave., 
Would plunge into the crater, and with life 
Appease the awful hunger of the earth. 
From Italy to the blue Baltic rolls 

A voice, a wind, a murmur in the air, 
A tone full of the sense of winds and waters 
And the faint whispers from ethereal fields, 
A cry^of anguish and of mystery 
Echoed by the volcano in whose depths 



THE TEUTON AGAINST PARIS. 305 

The monarchs one by one have disap- 
peared. 
And men who hear it answer back one 

word, 
" Liberty! " — Cities echo through their streets ; 
The word is wafted on from vale to vale : 
Heart-drowsy Albion answers with a cheer, 
Feeble yet clear; the great wild West refrains; 
Italy thunders, and Helvetia 
Blows the wild horn high up among her 

hills ; 
France, wounded, dying, stretch'd beneath 

my feet, 
Gnaws at her bonds and shrieks in mad 

accord 
(For she indeed first gave the thing a name) ; 
And even the wily Russian, with his yoke 
Prest on innumerable groaning necks, 
Sleek like the serpent, smooths his frosty 

cheek 
To listen, and half-smiling hisses back 
The strange word " Liberty ! " between his 

teeth, 
And shivers with a bitterer sense of cold 
x 



3o6 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

Than ever seized him in the lonely realm 
O'er which he paceth hungry and alone. 

CHORUS. 

Light on the brow 

Of the hill of Time, 
What light art thou, 
Whither all men now 

Turn eyes and climb ? 
Still gleaming afar, 

While the wild days go, 
Still shining a Star 

In the region of snow : 
We crave thee, we cry for thee, 
We faint and we sigh for thee, — 

Thou shinest above, — 
Yea, we dare die for thee, 

Light that we love. 

Not yet, O Light, 

Alas not yet, 
May we reach the height 
Where dim and bright 

Thy lamp is set, — 



THE TEUTON AGAINST PARIS. 307 

Like waves we whiten 

In the waste below, 
We darken and brighten, 

We ebb and we flow : 
Dim stretch the heights above 
All days and nights above, — 

Past the storms stream, — 
Light of all lights above 

Art thou a dream t 

No dream, O far 

Sweet Light and strange ! 
Not as dreams are, 
But a throned Star 

That doth not change ! 
O'er the world thou hast gleamed 

Since the first dim day : 
Dreams have been dream'd 

And have passed away ; 
All dreams have burn'd to thee, 
All days have turn'd to thee, 

O Liberty ! 
And as all have yearned to thee 

We yearn and see ! 



3o8 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

On the mountain's brow 

Dimly discern' d, 
What Light art thou, 
Whither all turn now 

As they ever turn'd ? — 
The great earth flowers to thee, 

The earth's tongues name thee, 
All things, all hours, to thee 

Upturn, and claim thee ; — 
And the world's waves wail for thee, 
And our cheeks flash pale for thee, 

Yet art thou sure — 
And though all hopes fail for thee, 

Thou shalt endure ! 



The ROYAL CHANCELLOR. 

What is this thing that men call " Liberty r " 
Not force, not tumult, not the wind and rain 
And tempest, not the spirit of mere storm, 
Not earthquake, not the lightning, not swift 

Fire, 
Not one of these, but mightier far than 

these, — 



THE TEUTON AG A IX ST PARIS. 309 

The everlasting principle of things, 
Out of whose silence issue all, the rock 
Whereon the mountain and the crater stand, 
The adamantine pillars of the earth, 
Deep-based beneath the ever-varying air 
And under the wild changes of the sea, 
The inevitable, the unchangeable, 
The secret law, the impulse, and the thought, 
Whereby men live and grow. 

Then I, this night 
As ever, dare with a man's eyes and soul 
Hold by this thing whereof the foolish rave, 
And cry, " In God's name, peace, ye winds 

and waves, 
Ye froths and bubbles on the sea, ye voices 
Haunting the fitful region of the air ! 
God is above ye all, and next to God 
The Son and Holy Spirit, and beneath 
These twain the great anointed Kings of 

Earth, 
And underneath the Kings the Wise and 

Good, 
And underneath the Wise the merely Strong, 



310 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

And least of all, clay in the hands of all, 
The base, the miserable, and the weak. 
What, then, is this that ye name " Liberty " r 
There is evermore a higher. Not like 

waves 
Beating about in a waste sea are men, 
But great, small, fair, foul, strong, weak, 

miserable ; — 
And Liberty is law creating law 
Wherein each corporal member of the world 
Filleth his function in the place ordain'd. 
Child at the knee, look in thy mother's 

face ! 
Boy-student, reverence the philosopher ! 
Clown, till the earth, and let the market 

thrive ! 
Citizen, doff to beauty and to grace, 
To antique fame and holy ancestry ! 
Nobles, blood purified from running long, 
Circle of sanctity, surround the King ! 
King, stand on the bare height and raise 

thine eyes, 
For there sits God above thee, reverencing 
The perfect mirror of the soul of things 



THE TEUTON AGAINST PARIS. 311 

Wherein He gazes calmly evermore, 
And knows Himself divine ! 

Thus stands for ever 
The eternal Order like a goodly tree, 
The root of which is deep within the soil. 
And lo ! the wind and rain are beating 

on it, 
And lightning rends its branches ; yet anon 
It hangs in gorgeous blossom still-renewed, 
And shoots its topmost twig up through the 

cloud 
To touch the changeless stars. Herr Demo- 
crat 
Comes with his blunt rough axe, and at its 

root 
Strikes shrieking; the earth's parrots echo 

him; 
Blow follows blow ; the air reverberates ; 
But the Tree stands. Come winds and waves 

and lightnings, 
Come axe-wielders, come ye iconoclasts, 
And spend your strength in vain. What ! 

ye would stretch 



312 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

This goodly tree, this very Iggdrasil, 
Down to the dusty level of your lives, 
Would strew the soil with the fair blooms 

thereof, 
Would tear away the succulent leaves and 

make 
A festal chaplet for Silenus' hair, 
A drunken garland for the Feast of Fools. 
See, yonder blow the branches where the 

great 
Tremble like ripen'd fruit ; yonder the holy 
Gleam in the silvern foliage, sweet and 

fair ; 
There, just beneath the cloud, most dim in 

height, 
The flowers of monarchy open their buds 
And turn their starry faces upward still. 
Strike at the root, my little democrat, 
Down with them ! Down with the whole 

goodly tree ! 
Down even with that fair shoot beyond the 

cloud, 
Down with the unseen bloom of perfect 

height. 



THE TEUTON AGAIXST PARIS. 313 

Down with the blossom on the topmost twig, 
Down with the light of God ! 

I compare further 
This Order to a Man, body and brain, 
He*art, lungs, eyes, feet to stand on, hands to 

strike. 
The King is to the realm what conscience is 
To manhood; the true statesman is the 

brain ; 
And under these subsist, greater and less, 
The members of the body politic. 
Behold now, this alone is majesty : 
The incarnate Conscience of the people, fixed 
Beyond the body, higher than the brain, 
Yet perfect fruit of both, — the higher sense 
That flashes back through all the popular 

frame 
The intuitions and the lights divine 
Whereby the world is guided under God. 
Nor are all Kings ancestral, though these 

same 
Are highest. Yonder in the stormy West 
The plain man Lincoln rose to majest}^, 



314 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

Incarnated the conscience and the will 

Of the strong generation, moved to his end, 

Struck, triumph'd in the name of conscience, 

fell, 
And like a sun that sets in bloody light, 
In dying darken'd half earth's continents. * 

. . . What, art thou there, old Phantom of the 

Red, 
Gambetta ? Urge thy legions, for in truth 
There is no face in France this day with 

light 
So troublous to the eyes of victory. 
O brave one, wert thou France's will and 

soul, 
Why we might tremble. Let there rise a 

land, 
As strong in conscience and as stern in soul 
As we have been to follow a living truth, 
And it might slay us even as we have 

slain 
Imperial France and the Republic. Now 
Supreme we stand, our symbol being the 

sword, 



THE TEUTON AGAINST PARIS. 315 

Our King the hand that strikes ; in that one 

hand 
I strike, all strike, yea every Teuton strikes. 
Reason and conscience knitted in accord 
Are deathless, and must overcome the world. 
The higher law will shape them. I believe 
There is evermore a higher. 



CHORUS. 

Blue arc of heaven whose lattices 
Are throng'd with starry eyes ; 

Vast dome that over land and seas, 
Dost luminously rise, 

With mystic characters enwrought 

More strange than all poetic thought ! 

Hear, Heaven, if thou canst hear ! and see, 

O stars, if see ye can ! 
Mark, while your speechless mystery 

Flows to a voice in man : 
He stands erect this solemn hour 
In reverent insolence of power. 



316 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

Order divine, whose awful show 
Dazzles all guess or dream ; 

Sequence unseen, whose mystic flow 
Fulfils the immortal scheme ; 

Thou law whereby all stand or stir, — 

Here breathes your last interpreter ! 

Because one foolish King hath slain 

Another foolish King ; 
Because a half-born nation's brain 

With dizzy joy doth ring ; 
Because at the false shepherd's cry 
The silly sheep still throng to die ; 

Because purblind philosophy 

Out of her cobweb'd cave 
Croaks in a voice of senile glee 

While empty patriots rave ; 
Because humanity is still 
The gull of any daring will ; 

Because the tinsel order stands 

A little longer yet ; 
Because in each crown'd puppet's hands 

A laurel-sprig is set, 



THE TEUTON AGAIXST PARIS. 317 

While the old lame device controls 
The draff of miserable souls ; 

Because man's blood again bathes bright 

The purple and the throne, 
And gray fools gladden at the sight, 

And maiden choirs intone ; 
Because once more the puppet Kings 
Dance, while Death's lean hand pulls the 

strings ; 

Because these things have been and are, 

And oft again may be, 
Doth this man swear by sun and star, 

And oh our God by Thee, 
Framing to cheat his own shrewd eyes 
His fair cosmogony of lies. 

O Lord our God whose praise we sing, 

Behold he deemeth Thee 
A little nobler than the King, 

And greater in degree, 
Set just above the monarch's mind, 
Greater in sphere but like in kind ! 



318 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

O calm Intelligence divine, 

Transcending life and death, 

He deems these bursting bubbles Thine, 
Blown earthward by Thy breath, — 

He marks Thee sitting well content, 

Like some old King at tournament. 

The lists are set ; upon the sod 

The gleaming columns range ; 

The sign is given by Thee, O God, 
From Thy pavilion strange : 

The trumpets blow, the champions meet, 

One screams — Thou smilest on Thy seat. 

Behold, O God, the Order blest 

Of Thy great chivalry ! 
See tinsel crown and glittering crest, 

Cold heart and empty eye ! 
The living shout, the dying groan, 
All reddens underneath Thy throne ! 

Accept Thy chosen ! great and good, 
Vouchsafe them all they seek ! 

Deepen their purple in man's blood ! 
Trumpet them with man's shriek ! 



THE TEUTON AGAINST PARIS. 319 

Paint their escutcheons fresh, O Sire ; 
With heart's blood bright and crimson fire ! 

And further, from the fire they light 
Protect them with Thy hand, 

Beyond the bright hill of the fight 
Let them in safety stand ; 

For 'twere not well a random blow 

Should strike thy next-of-kin below. 

O God ! O Father ! Lord of All ! 

Spare us, for we blaspheme, 
See, — for upon our knees we fall, 

And hush our mocking scream — 
Let us pray low ; let us pray low ; 
Thy will be done ; thy Kingdom grow ! 

Blue arc of heaven whose lattices 
Are throng'd with starry eyes, 

Still dome that over earth and seas 
Doth luminously rise ; 

Fair Order mystically wrought, 

More strange than all poetic thought. 



32o THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

He fears ye all, this son of man, 

To his own soul he lies, 
Lo ! trembling at his own dark plan 

He contemplates the prize : 
He has won all, and lo ! he stands 
Clutching the glory in his hands ! 

To one, to all, on life's dark way, 

Sooner or late is brought 
The silent solemnizing ray 

Illuminating thought ; 
It shines, they stand on some lone spot, 
Its light is strange, they know it not. 

Sleeps like a mirror in the dark 
The conscience of the soul, 

Unknown, where never eye may mark, 
While days and seasons roll ; 

But late or soon the walls of clay 

Are loosening to admit the day. 

Light comes — a touch — a streak — a beam- 
Child of the unknown sky — 



The teuton against parts. 32 r 

And lo ! the mirror with a gleam 

Flashes its first reply : 
Light brighteneth ; and all things fair 
Flow to the glass and tremble there. 

O Lord our God, Thou art the Light, 

We shine by Thee alone ; 
Tho' thou hast made us mirrors bright, 

The gleam is not our own ; 
Until thy ray shines sweet and plain 
All shall be dark as this man's brain. 

Thro 5 human thought as thro' a cave 
Creep gently, Lord, this hour ; 

Tho' now 'tis darker than the grave 
There lies the shining power ; 

Come ! let the soul flash back to Thee 

The million lights of Deity ! 

CHORUS. A DESERTER. 

Deserter. 

O I am spent ! My heart fails, and my limbs 

Are palsied. Would to God that I were dead ! 

Y 



322 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

Chorus. 

Stand ! What art thou, who like a guilty 

thing 
Creepest along the shadow, stooping low ? 

Deserter. 
A man. Now stand aside and let me pass. 

Chorus. 

Not yet. Whence fleest thou? Whither dost 
thou go ? 

Deserter. 

From Famine and Fire. From Horror. From 
Frost and Death. 

Chorus. 

O coward ! traitor to unhappy France ! 
Stand forward in the moon, that it may light 
The blush of shame upon thy guilty cheek ! 
Lo, we are women, yet .we shiver cold 
To look upon so infamous a thing. 



THE TEUTON AGAINST PARIS. 323 

Deserter. 
Nay, look your fill — I care not — stand and see. 

Chorus. 
O horror! horror! who hath done this deed? 

Deserter. 
What say ye r am I fair to look upon ? 

Chorus. 
The dead are fairer. O unhappy one ! 

Deserter. 
Why do ye shudder ? Am I then so foul \ 

Chorus. 
There is no living flesh upon thy bones. 

Deserter. 
Famine hath fed upon my limbs too long. 



3.24 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

Chorus. 
And thou art rent as by the teeth of hounds. 

Deserter. 
Fire tore me, and what blood I have I bleed. 

Chorus. 

Thine eyes stare like the blank eyes of a 
corpse. 

Deserter. 

They have look'd "so close on horror and so 

long 
I cannot shut them from it till I die. 

Chorus. 

Thou crawlest like a man whose sick limbs 
fail. 

Deserter. 

Ha, Frost is there, and numbs me like a 
snake. 



THE TEUTON AGAINST PARIS. 325 

Chorus. 

God help thee, miserable one ; and yet, 
Better if thou hadst perish' d in thy place 
Than live inglorious tainted with thy shame. 

Deserter. 

Shame ? I am long past shame. I know her 
not. 

Chorus. 

Is there no sense of honour in thy soul r 

Deserter, 

Honour ? Why see, she hath me fast 

enough : 
These are her other names, Fire, Famine, and 

Frost,— 
Soon I shall hear her last and sweetest, — 

Death. 

Chorus. 

Hast thou no care for France, thy martyr'd 
land ? 



326 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

Deserter. 
What hath she given me ? Curses and blows, 

Chorus. 
O miserable one, remember God ! 

Deserter. 

God : Who hath look'd on God ? Where 

doth He dwell ? 
O fools, with what vain words and empty 

names 
Ye sicken me. Honour, France, God ! All 

these — 
Hear me — I curse. Why, look you, there's 

the sky, 
Here the white earth, there, with its bleeding 

heart, 
The butcher'd City ; here half dead stand I, 
A murder' d man, grown grey before my 

time, 
Forty years old — a husband, and a father — 
An outcast flying out of Hell. Who talks 



THE] TEUTON AGAINST PARIS. 327 

; 

To me of " honour r " The first tears I wept 
When standing at my wretched mother's knee, 
Because her face was white, and she w T ore 

black, 
That day the bells rang out for victory. 
Then, look you, after that my mother sat 
Weeping and weary in an empty house, 
And they who look'd upon her shrunken 

cheeks 
Fed her with "honour." 'Twas too gentle 

fare, — 
She died. Nay, hearken ! Left to seek for 

bread, 
I like a wild thing haunted human doors 
Searching the ash for food. I ate and 

lived. 
I grew. Then, wretched as I was, I felt 
Strange stirs of manhood in my flesh and 

bones, 
Dim yearnings, fierce desires, and one pale 

face 
Could still them as the white moon charms 

the sea. 
Oh, but I was a low and unclean thing, 



328 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

And yet she loved me, and I stretch' d these 

hands 
To God, and blest Him for His charity. 
Mark that : — I blest Him, I. Even as I 

stood, 
Bright in new manhood, the drums beat, — a 

hand 
Fell on my shoulder, and, "in France's 

name," 
A voice cried, " Follow." To my heart they 

held 
Cold steel : — I followed ; following saw her 

face 
Fade to a bitter cry — hurl'd on with blows, 
Curs'd, jeer'd at, scorn' d, went forth as in a 

dream, 
And, driven into the bloody flash of war, 
Struck like a blinded beast I knew not whom 
Blows for I knew not what. The fierce years 

came 
Like ulcers on my heart, and heal'd, and went. 
Then I crept back, a broken sickly man, 
To seek her, and I found her — dead ! She had 

died. 



THE TEUTON AGAINST PARIS. 329 

Poor worm, of hunger. She had ask'd for 

bread, 
And "France" had given her stones. She 

had pray'd to " God ; " 
He had given her a grave. The day she 

died, 
The bells rang for another victory. 

Chorus. 
O do not weep ! Yet we are weeping too. 



Deserter. 

Now mark, I was too poor a worm to grieve 
Too long and deeply. The years passed. My 

heart 
Heal'd, and as wounds heal, harden'd. Once 

again 
I join'd the wolves that up and down the earth 
Rush tearing at men's lives and women's 

hearts. 
That passed, and I was free. One morn I saw 
Another woman, and I hunger' d to her, 



33o THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

And we were wedded. Hard days follow'd 

that; 
And children — she was fruitful — all your 

worms 
Are fruitful, mark — that is God's blessing 

too! 
Well,, but we throve, and farm'd a bit of land 
Out yonder by the City. I learn'd to love 
The mother of my little ones. Time sped ; 
And then I heard a cry across the fields, 
The old cry, " Honour," the old cry, " To 

Arms ! " 
And like a wolf caught in his lair I shrunk 
And shudder'd. It grew louder, that curst 

cry ! 
Day follow'd day, no bells rung victory, 
But there were funeral faces everywhere ; 
And then I heard the far feet of the foe 
Trampling the fields of France and coming 

nearer 
To that poor field I sow'd. I would have fled, 
But that they thrust a weapon in mine hands 
And bade me stand and strike " for France." 

I laugh'd ! 



THE TEUTON AGAINST PARIS. 331 

But the wolves had me, and we screaming 

drew 
Into the City. Shall I gorge your souls 
With horror ? Shall I croak into your ears 
What I have suffer'd there, what I have 

seen ? 
I was a worm, ever a worm, and starved 
While the plump coward cram'd. Look at 

me, women ! 
Fire, Famine, and Frost have got me ; yet I 

crawl, 
And shall crawl on ; for hark you, yester- 
night, 
Standing within the City, sick at heart, 
I gazed up eastward, thinking of my home 
And of the woman and children desolate, 
And lo ! out of the darkness where I knew 
Our hamlet lay there shot up flames and 

cast 
A bloody light along the arc of heaven ; 
And all my heart was sicken'd unaware 
With hunger such as any wild thing feels 
To crawl again in secret to the place 
Whence the fierce hunter drove it, and to see 



332 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

If its young live ; and thither indeed I fare 
And yonder flame still fiareth, and I crawl, 
And I shall crawl unto it though I die ; 
And I shall only smile if they be dead, 
If I may merely see them once again, — 
For come what may, my cup of life is full, 
And I am broken from all use and will. 



Chorus. 
Pass on, unhappy one ; God help thee now ! 

Deserter. 
If ye have any pity, give me bread. 

Chorus. 
Lean on us ! O thou lost one, come this way. 

Deserter.. 
And whither do ye lead me, O ye women ? 



the teuton against paris. 333 

Chorus 

Look yonder where the light gleams from a 

door, 
There shalt thou eat thy fill and warm thy 

limbs. 

Deserter. 
'Tis well ; there is some pity in your hearts. 

Chorus, 
We pity thee and bless thee, praying God. 

Deserter. 

Nay, let " God " be — In truth I know Him 
not. 

CHORUS. 

Stars in heaven with gentle faces, 
Can ye see and keep your places ? 
Flowers that on the old earth blossom, 
Can ye hang on such a bosom ? 
Canst thou wander on for ever 
Through a world so sad, O River r 



334 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

O ye fair things 'neath the sun, 
Can ye bear what Man hath done ? 

This is Earth. Heaven glimmers yonder. 
Pause a little space and ponder ! 

Day by day the fair world turneth 

Dewy eyes to heaven and yearneth, 

Day by day the mighty mother 

Sees her children smite each other : 

She moans, she pleads, they do not hear her — 

She prays — -the skies seem gathering near 

her — 
Yearning down diviner, bluer, 
Baring every star unto her, — 
Each strange light with swinging censer 
Sweeter seeming and intenser, — 
Yet she ceaseth not her cry, 
Seeing how her children die. 

On her bosom they are lying, 
Clinging to her, dead and dying — • 
Dead eyes frozen in imploring 
Yonder heaven they died adoring, 



THE TEUTON AGAINST PARIS. 

Dying eyes that upward glimmer 
Ever growing darker, dimmer ; 
And her eyes, too, thither turning, 
Asking, praying, weeping, yearning, 
Search the blue abysses, whither 
He who made her, brought her hither, 
Gave her children, bade them grow, 
Vanish'd from her long ago. 

Ah, what children ! Father, see them ! 
Never word of hers may free them — 
Never word of love may win them, 
For there burneth fierce within them 
Fire of thine ; soul-sick and sinning, 
As they were in the beginning, 
Here they wander. Father, see ! 
Generations born of thee ! 

Blest was Earth when on her bosom 
First she saw the double blossom, 
Double sweetness, man and woman, 
One in twain divine and human, 
Leaping, laughing, crying, clinging, 
To the sound of her sweet singing — 



336 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

Flesh like lily and rose together, 
Eyes as blue as April weather, 
Golden hair with golden shadows, 
In the face the light of meadows, 
In the eyes the dim soul peeping 
Like the sky in water sleeping. 
" Guard them well ! " the Father said, 
Set them in her arms, — and fled. 



Countless worlds around Him yearning, 
Vanish'd He from her discerning ; — 
Then she drooped her fair face, seeing 
On her breast each gentle being ; 
And unto her heart she prest them, 
Raised her look to heaven and blest them ; 
And the fountains leapt around her, 
Leaves and flowers shot up and crown'd her, 
Flowers bloom'd and streams ran gleaming, 
Till with bliss she sank to dreaming ; — 
And the darkness for a cover 
Gently drew its veil above her, 
And the new-born smiled reposing, 
And a million eyes unclosing 



THE TEUTON AGAINST PARIS. 337 

Yearn'd through all the veil to see 
That new fruit of mystery. 

Father ! come from the abysses ; 
Come, Thou light the mother misses ; 
Come, while hungry generations 
Pass away, she sits in patience. 
Of the children Thou didst leave her, 
Millions have been born to grieve her. 
See ! they gather, living, dying, 
Coming, going, multiplying ; 
And the mother for the Father, 
Though like waves they rise and gather, 
Though they blossom thick as grasses, 
Misses every one that passes, 
Flashes on them peace and light 
Of a love grown infinite. 

Father, see them ! hath each creature 
Something in him of Thy nature ? 
Born of Thee and of no other, 
Born to Thee by a sweet mother, 
Man strikes man, and brother brother. 
z 



338 THE DRAMA OF KINGS: 

Hearts of men from Thy heart fashioned 
Bleed and anguish bloody-passion'd, 
Beast-like roar the generations, 
Tiger-nations spring on nations ; 
Though the stars yearn downward nightly, 
Though the days come ever brightly, 
Though to gentle holy couches 
Death in angel's guise approaches, 
Though they name Thee, though they woo 

Thee, 
Though they dream and yearn unto Thee, 
111 they guess the guise thou bearest, 
111 they picture Thee, Thou Fairest ; — 
Come again, O Father wise, 
Awe them with those loving eyes ! 

Stars in heaven with tender faces, 
Can ye see and keep your places ? 
Flowers that on the earth will blossom, 
Can ye deck so sad a bosom ? 
Canst thou singing flow for ever 
Through a world so dark, O River ? 
Father, canst Thou calmly scan 
All that Man hath made of Man ? 



THE TEUTON AGAINST PARIS. 339 



The CHANCELLOR. A DEPUTY FROM THE 
CITY. 

Chancellor. 

Yield up again those stolen provinces ! 
Take council ! be the prince of peacemakers ! 
For, let me say it in thy private ear, 
As one who knows thee nobler than thy 

cause, 
There is no other hope for France than this 
We proffer. We have bought this thing with 

blood — 
Be wise and yield it — lest with bitterer 

blood 
We buy the dearest flesh and blood of 

Gaul, 
And welding it as clay unto our will 
Pour into it a new and Teuton soul. 

Deputy. 

That threat is empty, for the soul is God's ; 
These souls are French, they have thriven on 
French air ; 



34o THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

Rather than swell your triumph with their 

lives 
They would return to Him from whom they 



Chancellor. 

Why, let them go ! — The way to Him is 

short, 
Nor very tedious — though it seems a way 
Ye French love little, loving so much more 
The windy breath with which ye flout your 

foe. — 
Why, friend, we are no word-mongers, we 

twain : 
Yet here, like market-women cheapening fish, 
We wrangle at each other to no end. 
I tell thee (shall I swear by anything ? 
I know thy nation loveth a round oath ! ) 
I tell thee we are fixed as adamant, 
Inexorable as the sea, and strong 
To exact our wish as is the thunderbolt 
That for a moment in the rain-cloud burns 
Before it strikes the affrighted herdsman 

down. 



THE TEUTON AGAINST PARIS. 341 

Two powers have wrestled — one is over- 
thrown — 
How should the thrown man with his broken 

back 
Clutch to his heart the prize of victory r 
There is a victory in being vanquished 
Ye little understand. Did ever school- 
boy 
Howl so when whipt ? The world scream' d 

not as loud 
When like a swarm of locusts, like a 

cloud 
Of fiery pestilence, from the West to the 

East 
Ye overran the bleeding continents, 
And sowed in one Man's miserable name 
The crop all living men are reaping now. 

Deputy. 

If I conceive thee, 'tis no sin of ours 
That ye avenge on the fair head of France, 
No crime of yesterday or yesteryear, 
No deeds of live men walking in the sun, 



342 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

But wrongs long buried with the scourge of 

God 
In that forsaken island where he sleeps. 



Chancellor. 

They would not lie, man ! — from that lonely 

grave 
They have arisen again and yet again, — 
Ate-like, not to be laid by any charm 
But blood of sacrifice sent up to God 
From France the altar in whose name he 

slew. 

Deputy. 

Yet Caesar's triumphs were avenged on 

Ceesar ; 
Remember Katzbach ! Leipsic ! Waterloo ! 



Chancellor. 

O we remember ! The Colossus fell, 
And from the throne of every living King 



THE TEUTON AGAINST PARIS. 343 

A shadow passed ; yet still with hungry eyes 
The hordes he had led glared hate across the 

Rhine, 
Till from the charnel-house of that great name 
Uprose in his due time the wordy " Man 
Of Silence ; " round his feet the brute hosts 

leapt ; 
And smiling a smooth smile he glanced the 

way 
They hunger' d. We were scattered, and we 

crouch'd 
Under the .Austrian eagle. Then, one day, 
A plain man, a deep fellow with a will, 
Rose saying, " Craft for craft ! The bird of 

prey 
Hovers too much above the German Rhine — 
'Ware hawk ! till he is trapt there is no sleep 
For any of us poor creatures who love peace !" 
When lo ! the Vulture cried, " I am a Dove ! " 
And croak'd the hoarse cry of Democracy ; 
And as the soul of Italy arose, 
The Vulture struck the Austrian Eagle down, 
While all earth's kingdoms shook; then, 

stretching claws, 



344 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

He hovered o'er the imperial walls of Rome 
To warn the victor back. Now, that same 

man 
I spake of, looking very humbly on, 
Thought, " Craft for craft ! The Frenchman . 

wins by craft — . 
Not boldly, as the old French Eagle won. 
What Marshall Vorwarts to Napoleon was, 
Let me become to this the Man of Lies ; 
With his own weapons let me vanquish him ; 
First in the secret chamber, then with steel 
Out in the light of the world." So said, so 

done. 
Close to the dotard Austrian for a time 
We crouch'd ; but we were gathering strength 

and ire ; 
And one by one with the new Teuton soul 
We fill'd the scattered people of the Rhine. 
Then came the time to cast the Austrian off. 
'Twas done, we struck; your foul bird scream'd 

in vain ; 
And lo ! with that one blow we felt our 

strength 
Flow from the soul and grow invincible. 



THE TEUTON AGAINST PARIS. 345 

There was a pause. We saw the enemy 
Hovering afar and ever gathering 
And darkening the mighty River's bank ; 
And year by year we waited for the storm 
We knew must break upon our heads at last. 
It came — no bigger than the prophet's hand — 
Then the tornado blowing from the West, — 
So that the world cried, " God help Germany !" 
And lo ! God sent a wind out of the East ; 
And all the storm and wrack and thunder- 
rheum 
Gathered in groaning tumult o'er the Rhine. 
One from the East, the other from the West,' 
Tornado met tornado. One huge crash — 
'Twas o'er ! The West recoil'd in blood and 

fire, 
Leaving the poor sing'd Vulture on the 

ground, 
Struck by the lightning, screaming broken- 

wing'd, 
Flapping to rise in vain. On goes the storm, 
Driven less by sheer volition than the wind 
God sent to drive it West ; and still it sweeps — 
Still the earth groans and darkens under it, 



346 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

And still, as Canute cried unto the sea, 
Thou criest " Pause ! " How, like a summer 

cloud 
Recoil, and leave ye fresher for our rain ! 
True, we have slain the evil-omen'd Bird, 
And in so far have blest not punish'd France, 
Who followed his stale cry ; — but mark me, 

friend, 
The sworn foe of the Teuton is the Celt, 
Not the mere instrument your evil hands 
Could find whene'er they itch'd for butchery ; — 
For birds of prey abound, — and it is easy 
To fashion leaders for such hosts as yours. ■ 
But this time we will place ye in a pen 
High as the Vosges, deeper than the Rhine, 
So that though all the birds of earth should 

call, 
Though all the wild free beasts should roar 

their best, 
France, pent within the prison of her own fields, 
Shall like a tame thing only roar again. 

Deputy. 
Yet think of mercy. 



THE TEUTON AGAINST PARIS. 347 

Chancellor. 

We are merciful. 



Take pity. 



Deputy. 



Chancellor. 



We are very pitiful. 
Our women wail and weep in every house, 
Our babes are fatherless, our maiden flowers 
Wither unpluckt on every village way. 
Who says we are not pitiful ? 

Deputy. 

The head 

That wrong'd ye is a serpent's head, and 

bruised 
Is writhing underneath your armed heel. 
The blood of both the Teuton and the Celt 
Be on that head, — but we are innocent. 
Uplift thy knife from the poor lambs of 

France ; 



348 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

Spare them for Christ's sake ; let me shep- 
herd them 
To some sad fold of peace ! 

Chancellor. 

How call ye them ? 
Lambs ? Lambs man-tooth'd, and most om- 
nivorous ! 
Lambs ? We shall draw the teeth of these 

same lambs, 
Lest in a little season they may find 
Another wolf to lead them. 

Deputy. 

My tongue fails, 

And my heart sickens. Courtesy is rank, 

When I must listen to such words as these, 

And pick my feeble speech for France's sake. 

Chancellor. 

Pick nothing ; speak thy thought as man to 

man. 
And criticise. I adore criticism. 



THE TEUTON AGAINST PARIS. 349 

Deputy. 
It is all in vain. Ye are too fiercely bent 
On blood and most unhallowed revenge. 

Chancellor. 

How now ? Why, these are words for women. 

True, 
I am a bugbear to the ancient dames 
Of Europe, and the nations in their dread 
Picture me cloven-footed ; but do not thou, 
A wise man in thy generation, echo 
The stale flat talk of fools. Am I a vam- 
pire 
That I should love this blood ? I love mine 

ease — 
My wine, my mistress — all earth's tasty things 
In moderation — though I never suffer 
The cup to cloud my reason and my soul, 
Nor sell my manhood for a strumpet's kiss, 
As ye have done in France. Yet I believe 
There are worse hues than that of blood, and 
Life 



35o THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

More pitiful than Death ; and I, indeed, 
Am your physician, though ye know me not. 
Sick, body and soul, ye have polluted earth, 
Ye have sown abroad that beauteous leprosy 
Whereof your artists and your poets die, 
But now in one supremer nobler hour 
Your revellers, from the lupanar called, 
Instead of sickening of a long disease 
And rotting in the arms of harlotry, 

Have passed in bloody martyrdom to God. 

In truth the bitterest tears your eyes can 
weep 

Will not too freely purge your heated orbs 

Of their adulterous mist of lust and lies. 

These are worse things than dying \ things I 
deem 

More pitiful than Death ! Instead of these 

We give ye sudden Conscience flasht from 
grief, 

Fire for your Phrynes, and a naked Sword ! 

Deputy. 

Then I, in France's name, for France's sake, 
Reject the shallow puritanic lie, 



V AGAINST PARIS. 351 

Uing God to witness hurl ye back 
The taunt and smile. The stale flat talk of 

Is thy sense, yet how thou echoest it ! — 
ride rough-shod through the beau- 
. world, 

nwell's English troopers singing 
hy; 
hat your hearts are full of God at all, 
But that it helps your feet to march in time, 
While to the God of David ye intone, 

Qg the grimmest ever even in God,— 

hmen, subtly, delicately wrought, 
Him so keenly in the sense and soul, 
Catch with so swift a sense of fragrancy 
The divine truths of being, that our lives 
Become too rich for your harsh utterance. 
I r of spirit and more exquisite, 

r of sense, more sensual if thou wilt, 
table in the beautiful world God made ; 
iving Beauty for her own fair sake, 
I her so marvellously fair, 
In her we find an impulse and an end 
i your stale and flat morality. 



352 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

Wherefore we seek to shape our very lives 
To beauty and to music, which ye deem 
The harlot's privilege and stock-in-trade ; 
We plant within our simplest daily needs 
Spiritual sweetness and divine desire ; 
We stir to every wind of ecstasy ; 
We love no truth that is not beautiful, 
Since Beauty is the highest truth of all, 
The sum and end of human destiny. 



Chancellor. 

The glory of a strong man is his strength ; 
But ye — why ye are triflers ; though I own 
I like your novels ; they are pleasant reading, 
Most toothsome to the after-dinner taste. 



Deputy. 

O hear me ! if a sneer could kill a race, 
Then had ye Teutons died of Europe's sneer ! 
As ye abide, so shall the Frank abide. 
To ye no delicate line of law divides 
Beauty from harlotry ; for ye are dull, 



THE TEUTON AGAINST PARIS. 353 

And turn your hard-grain'd Gretchens to their 

use 
As tamely as ye sow and reap your corn ; 
And unto ye all rapturous sights and sounds, 
All married interchange of sense and soul, 
Are perilous, for ye dread the very Sun 
May come upon your kitchen Danaes 
And breed ye bastards in your own despite. 
Nay, ) r e fear Beauty as some witch whose 

eyes 
May hold ye like Tannhauser in the hills. 
While ye have trumpeted God's wrath abroad, 
While ye have driven His strength into men's 

hearts 
As did the kings of ancient Israel, 
We, we whom ye despised, have whispered 

low- 
God's secret; we have made the hand of Art 
More reverent, human voice and instrument 

delicate, all sense of sight and sound 
More cunning ; one by one we have laid bare 
The slender links that bind the soul of man 
To all fair things whence it has grown and 

blown ; 

A A 



354 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

And we have gain'd ye in your own de- 
spite : 
For if ye sing, ye sing more tenderly, 
And if ye dream, ye dream more beauti- 
fully, 
And if ye pray, perchance unconsciously 
Ye blend into your prayer some beauteous 

sense 
That till we Frenchmen cull'd it blew un- 

guess'd. 
All this we have done and more for Beauty's 

sake, 
And this forsooth ye christen " harlotry." 
Ye are as Israel, and ye know no God 
Unless He thunders; ye perceive no strength 
Save when ye look upon a hurricane ; 
Your dry blood turns all beauty back to 

use, 
By a coarse huswife's sampler fashioning 
All gentle woofs of loveliness and youth, 
Forgetting beauty blossoms out of use, 
Not use from beauty, but from perfect use 
The perfect flower of beauty crowning all. 
Ye walk within a garden, and with care 



THE TEUTON AGAINST PARIS. 355 

- your shrubs of hardy sentiment, 
And train your creeping virtues; but ye 

frown 
If the birds sing too loud, the blossoms 

scent 
Too richly ; ye speak, think, act, live, walk, 

fight 
As if the beauteous world w T herein ye dwell 

leagued against ye and confederate 
To seize ye as the woman in the Book 
The man of strength and rob ye of your 

hair; 
And in the very light of woman's eyes 
Ye Werthers see no grade between the stare 
Of lawful women sadly giving suck, 
And what forsooth ye christen " harlotry." 



Chancellor. 

A Jeremiad out of Babylon ! 

Let us return — yield the Rhine provinces. 



Deputy. 
What more r 



356 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

Chancellor. 
The rest is easy. These come first. 

Deputy. 
And I have answer'd. It can never be. 

Chancellor. 

Never ? Why they are ours to have and 
hold. 

Deputy. 

To take is not to give. We give them not. 
We will appeal to Europe, to the world ; 
We will call out with one imploring voice, 
Waking the sleeping Conscience of the earth ! 

Chancellor. 

Call. Scream. Have ye not call'd and 

screamed ? As loud 
As underneath your sallow Corsican 
We called of old. 



THE TEUTON AGAINST PARIS. 357 

Deputy. 
Ye did not call in vain. 

Chancellor. 

No ; for our cause was righteous ! — further- 
more, 
All backs like ours had felt that scourge of 

God. 
But now 'tis otherwise ; for ours indeed 
Hath been a peaceful hand, and not a gauge, 
A grim reminder and a daily threat, 
A mailed glove lying from day to day 
Unlifted on the council-board of Kings ; 
We play no tyrant, but iconoclast ; 
And further, let me whisper in thine ear, 
That were we thrice as bloody as ye deem, 
The nations are too wise to risk the touch 
Of that strong hand which like Belle- 

rophon's 
Hath slain the hugest Monster of the time. 

Deputy. 
They will not tamely see so foul a wrong. 
We will call England. 



358 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

Chancellor. 

Do not waste your breath : 
England hath pined away into a voice. 



Deputy. 

Italy! Austria! Russia! Shall not God 
Conjure a soul in one or all of these ? 



Chancellor. 

Too late. The days of chivalry are o'er. 
On this side Time there is no hope for France 
Save swift submission to her certain doom, — 
Confinement in her mighty prison-house 
West of the Vosges, o'er whose jagged walls 
Let her glare thirsty at the flowing Rhine ; — 
Thither indeed she comes not any more 
In pomp of war or smile of amity. 
Call r Let her call till thunder echoes her ! 
But verily, friend, that thunder will be ours, 
Such as now beats at yonder City's gates 
Startling the timid eyelids of the dawn. 



THE TEUTON AGAIXST PARIS. 359 

See ! Fire and Death fill all the dreadful 

air. 
Hearken ! Our guns are serenading now 
Her who was late the Mistress of the world. 
Speak ; save her ; save her miserable sons, 
Fighting in vain against the hurricane. 
No longer dally idly with your doom 
As ye were wont to do with women's hair ; 
Speak, and speak quickly, lest ye wholly 

die! 

CHORUS. 
A Distant Voice. 
God! God! God! 



Chorus. 

Hearken, O hearken ! 

The heavens darken, 

The storm is growing, 

The skies are snowing, 

Whiter and whiter 

Grows the ground, and brighter 



360 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

The wild fires glisten, 
As we moan and listen ; 
Wind-blown unto us 

A voice from the City 
Thrills faintly through us. 

Voice. 
Lord God, have pity ! 

Chorus. 

Gather in silence ! 
From mile on mile hence 
Drearly is driven 
Their cry to heaven ; 
Like the faint intoning 
Of the ocean moaning, 
Like the murmur creeping 

Most faint and weak 
From a dark cloud sleeping 

On a mountain peak. 
Tis the feeble crying 
Of the sick and dying, 



THE TEUTON AGAINST PARIS. 361 

The famine-stricken ; 

They sink and sicken, 

They thirst, and creeping 

Together moan, 
In the damp dew sleeping 

. Piliow'd on stone — 
And Sorrow above them 

With her frozen cheek 
Stoops — but to move them 
Her breath is weak, — 
Till with blank eyes glazing, 

And their faint breath fled, 
They sit there gazing, 
Frozen and dead. 

A Voice. 
Prepare ! 

Chorus. 

Like the opening of eyes 
In a horrible dream, 
like the flash in the skies 
When the thunder-cloud -flies, 



362 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

Comes the gleam. 
It comes, and is gone ; 
The dark roars ; and anon, 
From fort to fort gleaming, 

It burns in the night, 
Till the long line is streaming 

One glimmer of light — 
Like the black swell that dashes 
Round a headland and flashes 

Foam-white ! 

A Voice within the City. 
Woe ! woe ! 

Chorus. 

'Tis begun, and they cry in the street, 
As lambs rush together and bleat ! 
And the Horror above and around 
Springs to a serpentine sound. 
Lo ! where the fiery spheres curve 
Up through the air without swerve ; 
See how the bolts one by one 
Speed to the flash of the gun ! 



THE, TEUTON AGAINST PARIS. 363 

Now, strain your eyes thro' the dark ; 

Look on the City, and mark 

How they strike on the roofs, and in thunder 

Crash, and in flame rend asunder 

To the groan of stone turret and column, 

To the scream of the slain, to the solemn 

Deep toll of the bell in the spire ! 

Voices Within. 
Fire ! Fire ! 

Chorus. 

See ! where it springs in the air, 
With a scream and a rush and a glare, 
Out of the roofs, while beneath 
Blacker flames wrestle and seethe ; 
Brighter and brighter ! behold, 
Wrapping the street in its fold, 
Streaming and gleaming and burning, 
Sinking, upspringing, returning, 
Fierce, unappeasable, glowing 

Red-shadow' d on turret and vane — 
While black shades are coming and going, 

Seeking to slake it in vain ! 



364 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

Voice from Without. 

Steady ! make ready ! aim higher — 
Into the heart of the fire ! 

Chorus. 

See ! how the fiery guns gleam, 
Flashing like eyes in a dream ! 
Hark — how the air and the skies 
Groan, and the City replies — 

Voices Within. 
God! God! God! 



Chorus. 

Where the flame is growing, 
Leaping and blowing, 
Where the people are calling, 
See black rain falling, 
Black rain, lead-rain, 
Flashing to red rain, 
Showering and flashing, 
To the crumbling and crashing 



THE TEUTON AGAINST PARIS. 365 

Of column and steeple— 
Striking and gleaming, 
To the hollow screaming 

Of the stricken people, — 
To_the hollow thunder 

Of the cannon call, 
To the rending asunder 

Of roof and wall ! 
And see ! O Pity ! 

Answering, 
Over the City 

Fires upspring : 
First dim, then lighter, 
Then lighter, brighter, 

Fire upon fire : 
Till the air is glowing 
And a red flame flowing 

On every spire — 
And dome and column 
Gleam, — to the solemn 

Incessant tolling 

From street to street, 
And hark, far under, 

While we watch and wonder, 



366 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

With a muffling rolling, 
The deep drums beat ! 

[Day-break. 

A Voice. 

Forward for France ! 
Gather together ! Advance ! 

Chorus. 

See ! like a black snake there crawls, 
Under the fire of the walls, 
A dark mass, and over the snow- 
Speeds for the camp of the foe : 
River-like, silent and still, 
It rolleth under the hill, 
And out on the plain white and bare 
Spreads silent and strange. 

A Sentinel. 

Who goes there ? 

A Voice. 
Forward, for France ! 



THE TEUTON AG A IX ST PARIS. 367 

Chorus. 
Pray for France ! 

Voice. 
Gather together ! Advance ! 

Chorus. 
Pray for them ! 

A Voice. 
Fire ! 

Chorus. 

God in heaven ! 
As a forest by lightning is riven, 
As the rolls of the sea are plough'd white 
By the wind, they are stricken ; and bright 
Blaze the manifold eyes of the fire 
As they tremble and scream and expire ; 
Again and again and again, 
Like the lightning-rent clouds of the rain, 
Like the waves of the sea in the storm, 
They gather together and form ; 
And again and again and again 
They are scatter'd like hail, and the plain 
Is black with the mounds of the slain. 



368 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

O pray for them ! Fire swift and fleet 
Ploughs them as wind plougheth wheat ! 
O pray for them all ! Pray for France ! 

A Voice. 
Gather together ! Advance ! 

Chorus. 

Onward, still nearing 

The eyes that flash on them ; 
Onward unfearing, 

Tho s the death-bolts crash on them, 
Torn asunder 
By lightning and thunder, 
Though the black shells thicken 

And rain red death on them, 
Rent and stricken, 

With Fire's fierce breath on them, 
Still forward winning, 
But ever thinning, 
Onward they go, 

Over dying and dead, 
Leaving the snow 

Not white but red. , 



THE TEUTON AGAINST PARIS. 369 

And now like a torrent, 

Furious, horrent, 

From his lair in the dark 

Springs the foe ; and hark ! 
Like waters meeting 

They gather and scream, 
While drums are beating 

And the death's-eyes gleam ! — 
Like trees of the forest 
When the storm-wind is sorest, 
Like waves of the ocean, 
They meet in wild motion, 
They reel, they advance, 

They gather — they stand; 
Their wild weapons glance, 

They are scattered like sand. 

A Voice. 
Courage ! — for France ! 



Another Voice. 

Fatherland ! fatherland ' 
B B 



37o THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 



Chorus. 

The light is glowing 

Around blood-red, 
The winds are blowing, 
And the clouds are snowing 

On the heaps of dead. 
The white snows cover them, 
The swords flash over them, 
Death waits each way for them, — 
O bless them, pray for them ! 
They are mingled like water, 
They are grappled in slaughter, 
Face to face like wolves glaring, 
With eyes fiercely staring, 
Grappled and crying, 

Rank within rank, 
Dead, living, and dying, 

Teuton and Frank ; 
Like a cloud struck by lightning 

And rent into rain, 
Darkening and brightening 

They cover the plain. 



the teuton against paris. 

Voice. 
Charge ! 

Voices of Cavalry. 

Fatherland ! 

A Voice. 
Gather together and stand ! 

Voices. 
Charge ! 

Chorus. 

Shaking the ground, 
With a tramp and a roar, 

With a torrent's force, 
With a sound like the sound 
Of the sea on the shore, 

Come the Teuton horse. 
How they ride ! with their bare 
Swords uplifted in air, 
And each man bending low 
O'er his steed's saddle-bow, 



THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

While his fiery eyes glow, 
On they ride ! On they go ! 
Now, screaming aloud, 
They have struck on the crowd, 
Like the wind on a cloud, 

Like a knife at the heart ; 
It scatters, it rives 
Into dark wreaths of lives 

That struggle apart. 

Voices. 
Fly! fly! fly! 

Chorus. 

Hark how they scatter and cry ! 
Hark how a melody thin 
Sounds the retreat from within- 

See how they linger and die ! 

Voices. 
Fly! fly! fly! 

Chorus. 
O woe, O woe, 
Like storms that blow 



THE TEUTON AGAINST PARIS. 373 

On a mount and shake it not, 
Like waves that dash, 
Crash after crash, 

On a rock and break it not ; 
Like wind against tide, only beating it whiter, 
Like wind striking fire and but making it 
brighter, 
France striketh with passionate breath, 
And closer and closer, and tighter and tighter, 
The fiery Snake clings to her, 
With glistening rings to her ; 

She moans, she grows feeble in death. 
O pray for her ! plead for her ! 
Cry ! intercede for her ! 

Voices Within. 
Bread ! give us bread ! 

Chorus. 
We hearken and sicken — 
'Tis the famine-stricken. 
Ah, the deep moan in the air, 
Blown from the depths of despair. 
Hark, too, drums beat and feet tread. 



374 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

A Voice. 
Go forth and bury the dead. 

Chorus. 

Silent still falleth the snow, 

Still the clouds drive, the winds blow — 

Again, like fierce eyes in a dream, 

The dreadful guns open and gleam 

To a hollow reverberation, 

And the shriek of a shatter'd nation : 

Column and turret are riven, 

Shrieking fire springeth to heaven. 

Woe for the city of splendour ! 

Man hath no pity to lend her ! 

He calleth Hell's legions to rend her ! — 

Her sins were against her God — 

May God forgive her them ; 
She lieth opprest, under-trod, — 
God striketh her hosts to the sod, 

And His lightnings shiver them. 

Voices Within. 
Hear us, O God ! 



THE TEUTON AGAINST PARIS. 375 

Chorus. 
O God, deliver them ! 



The CHANCELLOR. A BONAPARTIST 
OFFICER. 

Chancellor. 

Bid him rest silent, watching from his prison 
How the dice fall ; for 'tis a game (he knows) 
Where no man, let him reckon as he will, 
Can quite sum up the chances. 

Officer. 

Is there hope ? 
He asks; and further, dost thou bid him 
hope? 

Chancellor. 

I know not. Why, hope comes of God, not 
man. 

Officer. 

Should he return and grasp his scatter'd 

crown, 
Will ye oppose his path, or stand aside ? 



376 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

Chancellor. 

Now, softly ; — there upon the earth he lies, 
A thing we never loved, an idol of gold 
We vowed to shatter ; but we sought forsooth 
To break him not destroy him ; and per- 
chance — 
I say perchance — it might be well for Gaul 
To take her ancient image for a space 
In lieu of this red Spectre stalking now 
Among the imperial shadows of the time. 
Let him lie still, making no sign, and wait 
For our uplifted finger. Time will show. 

Officer. 
How fares it with the broken hosts of France ? 

Chancellor. 
111. Here come tidings. Stand aside and 

hear. 

{Enter a Messenger. 

Speak ! 

Messenger. 

These despatches from the west. Like chaff 
Before the strong fan of the winnower, 



THE TEUTON AGAINST PARIS. 377 

The Breton host is flying. Wild Misrule 
And Superstition, in the gloomy camp 
Stalking phantasmic, awe the ignorant ranks 
And scatter them along the dark, like mists 
Wind-broken into thin and wavering rain. 
The priest-rid peasants in the act to advance 
Linger to pray, and trembling count their 

beads ; 
And tho' the frantic leaders scream their best, 
And conjure in the name of all the saints, 
The squadrons melt between two strange 

extremes — 
The brute-stare of inaction and the fire 
Of sudden panic scattering at one flash 
These — oxen. 

Chancellor [to Officer.) 
Dost thou hear ? 

Messenger. 

Even as a man 
Lured by the dancing ignis fatuus, 
The Greek Bourbaki step by step withdrew 



378 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

To the east, and our two legions of the 

Loire, 
No longer held asunder, struck Le Mans 
At midnight. 'Twas a bloody blow and 

brief! 
We did divide the host, from bourne to 

bourne 
Drove them, devour' d their wavering lines 

with fire, 
While staring frantic at the flame-lit dark 
The Bretons saw in mingled lineaments 
All horrible the looks of friend and foe, 
Struck in the darkness at each other's 

hearts, 
Clung to each other, drove like breaking 

waves 
Hither and thither with no aim and will ; 
And now, torn thus into two broken hosts, 
They for whom hungry eyes watch day by 

day 
Out of the City yonder, drift to the south 
Swift as the storm-wreck when the storm is 

spent. 

\_Enter a Messenger. 



the teuton against paris. 379 

Chancellor. 
Whence comest thou ? 

Messenger. 

From Belfort. Thrice the sun 
Arose and set above the bloody Luisne, 
While hour by hour, ever repulsed, the 

French 
Struck with despairing strength upon the 

line 
Of brave Von Werder, which like some great 

rock 
Stagger'd before the thunderbolt but stood ; 
And lo ! even as a torrent spends itself 
And scatters, the wild legions of the Greek 
Fell back and broke with their own furious 

force. 
And now, in bloody runlets, water-weak, 
Southward they flow, a murmur in the fields, 
A dark mass drifting to uncertain doom, 
And with their impotent despairing cry, 
Dies the last hope of all that strike for 

France. 



380 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

Chorus. 
Who passeth there 
Naked and bare, 
A bloody sword upraising ? 
Who with thin moan 
Glides past alone, 
At the black heaven gazing ? 
Limbs thin and stark, 
Eyes sunken and dark, 
The lightning round her leaping ? 
What shape floats past 
Upon the blast, 
Crouching in pain and creeping ? 

Behold ! her eyes to heaven are cast, 
And they are red with weeping. 

Say a prayer thrice 

With lips of ice : 
'Tis she — yea, and no other ; 

Look not at me 

So piteously, 
O France — O martyr mother ! 

O whither now, 

With branded brow 



THE TEUTON AGAINST PARIS. 381 

And bleeding heart, art flying ? 
Whither away ? 
O stand ! O stay ! 
Tho' winds, waves, clouds are crying — 

Dawn cometh swift — 'twill soon be day — 
The Storm of God is dying. 

She will not speak, 

But, spent and weak, 
Droops her proud head and goeth ; 

See ! she crawls past, 

Upon the blast, 
Whither no mortal knoweth — 

O'er fields of fight, 

Where glimmer white 
Death's steed and its gaunt rider — 

Thro' storm and snow, 

Behold her go, 
With never a friend beside her — 

O Shepherd of all winds that blow, 
To Quiet Waters guide her ! 

There, for a space, 
Let her sad face 



382 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

Fall in a tranquil mirror- 
There spirit-sore 
May she count o'er 

Her sin, her shame, her error, — 
And read with eyes 
Made sweet and wise 

What her strong God hath taught her, 
With face grown fair 
And bosom bare 

And hands made clean from slaughter — 
O Shepherd, seek and find her there, 

Beside some Quiet Water ! 



CHANCELLOR. BUONAPARTIST OFFICER. 
A MESSENGER. 

Messenger. 

'Tis finished. In the south Gambetta screams, 
Summoning all the winds to strike for France, 
But the last breath is spent. The broken 

hosts 
Have drifted wild into Helvetia, 
And there, with faces sicker than the snow 
That glimmers up above them silently, 



THE TEUTON AGAINST PARIS. 383 

Have twenty thousand men laid down their 

arms. 
Nothing abides to conquer. Tis not war, 
But mere sheep-chasing in the shambles 

now ; 
And our strong legions hold their hands and 

smile, 
Having no hearts to strike like martial men 
At things so little worthy of their steel. [Exit. 

Chancellor. 

I know not what strange potion they have 

drunk, 
What black magician holds them with his 

arts, 
But struggling with these Frenchmen is to 

fight 
With Circe's swine ; they know no head, no 

hand, 
But go like driftweed up and down the 

tide; 
The land they dwell in is to them as strange 
As Egypt's sand-hills or the Russian snows 



384 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

To Buonaparte's thinning phalanxes ; 

They huddle and starve on their own hearths, 

and find 
The prospect foreign and barbarian ; 
They have no hearts, no stomachs, and they 

fall 
Before our bolts as the affrighted hordes 
Before the prodigies whose flash foredoom'd 
The Roman and the Goth. 
As easy 'twere to animate the dead, 
Or fill a flock of oxen with one soul, 
As fashion those false Frenchmen to the form 
Thy fathers wore to darken Christendom. 

Officer. 

They lack indeed a name to conjure with ; 
I know of one might animate them yet. 

Chancellor. 

Not that, which like a wind-bag at Sedan 
Burst with a puff of lean and braggart speech. 
The Man of Elba were himself too weak 
To fill this thin and broken frame of France : 



THE TEUTON AGAINST PARIS. 385 

It lacks a soul indeed, and such a soul ; 

But it is broken in the body too. 

I tell thee only he thou servest made 

This body what it is. Xot such a soul 

As filled it out of Buonaparte's breath, 

But rather like a very Incubus, 

Xapoleon sat and fatten'd, — round the neck 

Of France clung as a pamper'd slothful child 

That drains the weary mother hour by hour : 

A very Changeling, monstrous and unblest, 

Ev'n such as thou hast heard thy grandam tell 

Were dropt in peasants' cradles by the elves : 

A crafty, strange, mysterious sort of birth, 

Jealous, green-eyed, big-brain'd, and weak of 

feet, 
Drawing not merely moisture from the breast 
But blood and life itself. Nay, hear me out ! 
These changeling babes had oftentimes the 

skill 
To make the mother love them, as indeed 
Poor France did love her monster for a time, 
And she forgave him even Mexico, 
Because he smiled her down ; and, day by day, 
Fastened upon by her unnatural birth, 
C C 



3 86 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

She like a mortal mother weakening 
Crawled up and down the globe. For she 

was glad 
Because the world was sunny, and the board 
Well-stored, the fields most golden at her 

door, 
Nor knew the fatal lips that drew her milk 
Were subtly sucking at her strength and life. 
Not till the thing fell from her, and the foe 
Sprang at her, did she learn her feebleness, 
Limbs, tongue, eyes, heart, all fail'd her as 

she strove, 
Though with the fury of a thing that dies 
She clings with weakening clutches to the 

end. 

CHORUS. 
Strophe I. 

Ay me, to dwell in some remote still valley, 
Far from the civil fret and martial pride, 

To sit by some sweet river musically 

Singing for shepherds piping happy-eyed ; 
Ay me, to quit sad cities and abide 



THE TEUTON AGAINST PARIS. 387 

Where never name of king was ever 

known, 
Where never sword is drawn or trumpet 
blown, 
Where the slow hours from morn to even- 
tide, 
Sweet, silent, and alone, 

Move like a feeding flock on some green 
mountain-side. 



Antistrophe I. 

For my heart bleeds, my soul with tears is 
swelling, 
To see mankind so tame to taunts and 
stings, 
How, knowing not the might within them 
dwelling, 
They take the tyrant's yoke like soulless 

things ; 
Crouch, crawl beneath the lash of under- 
lings, 
And even as silly sheep are bought and sold, 
Driven from the pleasant pasture and the fold, 



388 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

Drawn from the fresh fields and the crystal 

springs, 
Slain for a little gold, 

Slaughter'd forsooth like beasts, to please 

the whim of Kings. 

Strophe II. 

And even as silly seals in summer weather, 
With large eyes listening, from the deep 
below 

Rise up, and gather hearkening together, 
Because some cunning fisher fiuteth slow, 
And follow sleepily while the seamen row, 

And so are led to doom and have no fear; — 

Even such as these are foolish mortals here, 
With empty eyes that neither see nor 
know, 

But blankly gaze and peer, 

And follow a vain sound wherever it doth go. 

Antistrophe II. 

And, one by one, out of the wondrous portal, 
Whose backward darkness no man's eye 
may read, 



THE TEUTON AGAINST PARIS. 389 

Some monster comes, strong, subtle, and 
most mortal, 
And him the foolish people follow in- 
deed, 
Crying, " This is no man of mortal seed, 
But more divine than any human thing ! " 
And in his steps they follow clamouring ; 
Whither he listeth, though their sore feet 
bleed, 
They follow him their King, — 

Until he sinks, and lo ! some other comes to 
lead. 

Strophe III. 

O mortal men, awake, and gather, and go 
not ; 
Hear wise men speak, hear God's own 
prophets cry. 
Be not as poor tame things that see not, know 
not, 
But smile, and let the unnatural birth go 

by; 
Stop ye your ears against its human sigh, 



39o 



THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 



And if it threatens, threaten ye again — 
Yea, send it forth to sow and reap the 
grain, 
As ye do, underneath the peaceful sky ; 
Or hold it with a chain ; 

And if all chains are vain, strike it and let 
it die. 

Choir Without. 
Gloria Deo ! Floreat Imperator ! 



Antistrophe III. 

O hearken, hearken ! for I hear a crying 

Of many voices, and the clang of swords, 
With what strange cry do voices multiply- 
ing 
Rend the day's darkness into thunderous 

words ? 
" Glory to God ! " cry these triumphant 
hordes, 
Having made sacrifice most manifold ; 
And unto Him the armed people hold, 



THE TEUTON AGAIXST PARIS. 391 

With acclamations and most glad ac- 
cords, 
A foolish King and old ; 

" Glory to God!" they cry; — yea, glory is 
the Lord's. 



Choir Without. 
Glorea Deo ! Floreat Patria ! 

Epode. 

Creep closer, hearkening. Tis a sound like 
thunder, 
Deep as the roll of waves on some sad 
shore, 
And, listening, our hearts are torn asunder. 
Would we might die ! would that the 

world were o'er ! 
For life is bitter, and mere breath is 
sore, 
Seeing how mortal men are slain and 

slay 
At will of each new creature of a day, 



392 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

Crafty or foolish, him they will adore. 
Oh might we pass away, 
Die, cease, be done with earth ; slumber, and 
see no more. 

CHORUS. A MESSENGER. 

Messenger. 

Why, women, do ye linger pale-faced here, 
Hearkening, each with hand upon her 
heart ? 

Chorus. 

We hear glad sounds, the tread of mailed feet, 
The playing of light music, and, moreover, 
The organ's plagal cadence deep and low. 

Voices. 
Gloria in excelsis Deo ! 

Chorus. 

Hark ! 
Yonder the City burns and moans ; and here 
There comes a ripple of music and glad 
speech. 



THE TEUTON AGAINST PARIS. 393 

Messenger. 

Tis a blest day. Within the triumph-hall 
They hail our Wilhelm German Emperor. 

Voices. 
Gloria Deo ! Plaudite, omnes gentes ! 

Chorus. 

O woe ! — while France lies bleeding at his 
feet! 

Messenger. 

Hush ; and stand back — why do ye wring 
your hands ? 

See ; 'tis a sight to make an old man young. 
[The Scene opens, revealing the interior of 
the Hall of Mirrors. The Kaiser, 
surrounded by the Princes and Leaders 
of the host. Priests pronouncing the 
Benediction, and Choristers intoning. 
Organ-music. 

A Rainbow of the mighty of the Earth 

Arching the great grey head; and mirror'dback, 



394 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

Out of a thousand silver pools of glass, 
A gleaming of rich robes, a flash of steel, 
Waves of uplifted faces round the King, 
All phosphorescent with their own wild light, 
Like to the sea washing an ocean isle 
Purpled with blooms and dim with orient 
gold. 1 

Choir, 
Gloria in excelsis Deo ! 

Kaiser. 
From Him the Highest, who alone can give, 
This day I take the great imperial Crown 
I sought not ; at His bidding, at His hands, 
I take the Crown and I uplift the Sword. 

Choir. 
Cantate Deo ! Jubilate, gentes ! 

Priest. 

Hark to the Song of the Sword ! 
In the beginning, a Word 



THE TEUTON AGAINST PARIS. 395 

Came from the lips of the Lord ; 

And He said, "The Earth shall be, 

And around the Earth the Sea, 

And over these twain the Skies ; 

And out of the Earth shall rise 

Man, the last and the first ; 

And Man shall hunger and thirst, 

And shall eat of the fruits in the sun, 

And drink of the streamlets that run, 

And shall find the wild yellow grains, 

And, opening earth, in its veins 

Sow the seeds of the same ; for of bread 

I have written that he shall be fed." 

Thus at the first said the Lord. 

Choir. 
Hark to the Song of the Sword ! 

The Priest. 

Then Man sowed the grain, and to bread 
Kneaded the grain, and was fed, 
He and his household indeed 
T< > the last generation and seed : 



396 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

Then the children of men, young and old, 

Sat by the waters of gold, 

And ate of the bread and the fruit, 

And drank of the stream, but made suit 

For blessing no more than the brute. 

And God said, " 'Twere better to die 

Than eat and drink merely, and lie 

Beast-like and foul on the sod, 

Lusting, forgetful of God ! " 

And He whispered, " Dig deeper again, 

Under the region of grain, 

And bring forth the thing ye find there 

Shapeless and dark ; and prepare 

Fire, — and into the same 

Cast what ye find — let it flame — 

And when it is burning blood-bright, 

Pluck it forth, and with hammers of sleight 

Beat it out, beat it out, till ye mark 

The thing that was shapeless and dark 

Grown beautiful, azure, and keen, 

Purged in the fire and made clean, 

Beautiful, holy, and bright, 

Gleaming aloft in the light ; — 

Then lift it, and wield!" said the Lord. 



THE TEUTON AGAIXST PARIS. 397 

Choir. 
Hark to the Song of the Sword ! 

Priest. 

Then Man with a brighter desire 

Saw the beautiful thing from the fire, 

And the slothful arose, and the mean 

Trembled to see it so keen, 

And God, as they gather'd and cried, 

Thunder 5 d a Word far and wide : 

" This Sword is the Sword of the Strong ! 

It shall strike at the life's blood of wrong ; 

It shall kill the unclean, it shall wreak 

My doom on the shameful and weak ; 

And the strong with this sign in their 

hands 
Shall gather their hosts in the lands, 
And strike at the mean and the base, 
And strengthen from race on to race ; 
And the weak shall be wither'd at length, 
For the glory of Man in his strength, 
And the weak man must die," saith the Lord. 



398 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

Choir. 
Hark to the Song of the Sword ! 

Priest. 

Sire, whom all men of thy race 
Name as their hope and their grace ; 
King of the Rhine-water' d land, 
Heart of the state and its hand, 
Thou of the purple and crown, 
Take, while thy servants bow down, 
The Sword in thy grasp. 



Kaiser. 

It is done. 



Priest. 

Uplift ! let it gleam in the sun — 
Uplift in the name of the Lord ! 

Choir. 
Hail to the King and the Sword ! 



THE TEUTON AGAINST PARIS. 399 

Kaiser. 

Lo ! how it gleams in the light, 
Beautiful, bloody, and bright — 
Such in the dark days of yore 
The monarchs of Israel bore ; 
Such by the angels of heaven 
To Charles the Mighty was given — 
Yea, I uplift the Sword, 
Thus in the name of the Lord ! 

The Chiefs. 

Form ye a circle of fire 
Around him, our King and our Sire — 
While in the centre he stands, 
Kneel with your swords in your hands, 
Then with one voice deep and free 
Echo like waves of the sea — 
" In the name of the Lord \" 

Chancellor. 

Sire, while thou liftest the Sword, 
Thus in the name of the Lord, 



400 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

I too, thy slave, kneel and blend 

My voice with the hosts that attend — 

Yea, and while kneeling I hold 

A scroll writ in letters of gold, 

"With the names of the monarchs who bow 

Thy liegemen throned lower than thou ; 

Moreover, in letters of red, 

Their names who ere long must be led 

To thy feet, while thou ^ftest the Sword, 

Thus in the name of the Lord! 

Voices Without. 
Where is he ? — he fades from our sight f 
Where the Sword ? — all is blacker than 

night. 
Is it nnish'd, that loudly ye cry r 
Doth he sheathe the great Sword while we die ? 
O bury us deep, most deep; 
Write o'er us, wherever we sleep, 
" In the name of the Lord ! " 

Kaiser. 

While I uplift the Sword, 
Thus in the name of the Lord, 



THE TEUTON AGAINST PARIS. 4 or 

Why, with mine eyes full of tears, 
Am I sick of the song in mine ears r 
God of the Israelite, hear; 
God of the Teuton, be near ; 
Strengthen my pulse lest I fail, 
Shut out these slain while they wail — 
For they come with the voice of the grave 
On the glory they give me and gave. 



Chorus. 

In the name of the Lord ? Of what Lord ? 
Where is He, this God of the Sword ? 
Unfold Him ; where hath He his throne r 
Is he Lord of the Teuton alone ? 
Doth He walk on the earth ? Doth he tread 
On the limbs of the dying and dead r 
Unfold him ! We sicken, and long 
To look on this God of the strong ! 

Priest. 

Hush ! In the name of the Lord, 
Kneel ye, and bless ye the .Sword ! 

D D 



402 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

Bless it with soul and with brain, 
Bless it for saved and for slain, 
For the sake of the dead in the tomb, 
For the sake of the child in the womb, 
For the sake of these Kings on the knee, 
For the sake of a world it shall free ! 
Bless it, the Sword ! bless the Sword ! 
Yea, in the name of the Lord ! 



Chiefs. 

Deepen the circle of Fire 
Around him, our King and our Sire ! 
While in our centre he towers, 
Kneeling, ye spirits, ye powers, 
Bless it and bless it again, 
Bless it for saved and for slain, 
Bless ye the beautiful Sword, 
Aloud in the name of the Lord ! 



Kaiser. 
In the name of the Lord ! 



THE TEUTON AGAINST PARIS. 403 

All. 
In the name of the Lord ! 



The Choir. 

By the Light adored, 

By Father, and Son, and Spirit, 
By the Name and the Word, 

By the blood of Christ we inherit — 
Lord of the Rhenish land, 
Heart of the state and its hand, 
Take the Sword of the Lord, 
Uplift and bear it ! 

Where the Rhine is pour'd 

Round the German lands that are one 
with it, 
Where in sweet accord 

Fair streams fall into and run with it, 
Rise with the Sword in thy hand, 
Glory and strength of the land ; 
Take the Sword from the Lord, 

Stand up in the sun with it ! 



404 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

In the name of the Lord, 

Tis done ; and His hand hath deckt thee : 
By the Light Adored, 

None may henceforth reject thee — 
Heart of the Fatherland, 
Heart and spirit and hand, 
The Lord and the Word and the Sword, 

Keep and protect thee ! 

The Kaiser. 

Princes, and powers, and principalities, 
Kings, brethren, round whose lands the Rhine 

rolls waves 
Blue as the German heaven that bends above, 
Ye who henceforth shall shine around our 

throne 
Like glorious constellations, in your places 
Set by God's hand as light for human eyes, 
Friends, brethren, Kings and kinsmen, words 

are weak, 
All oratory dumb, music too faint, 
All art too feeble and inadequate, 
To measure the large issue of this day. 



THE TEUTON AGAINST PARIS. 405 

There is a God that cuts the path of Kings, 
Leading them whither He listeth ; and that 

God— 
Albeit at first I trembled at His hand, 
Albeit the path seem'd dark before my feet, 
And my heart fail'd me since the path was 

strange — 
That God hath led me hither, safe, supreme, 
Chief of a living people, arm and heart, 
A King, the seed of Kings, and chosen head 
Of Kings anointed. Him, the King of Kings, 
Before whose feet I am as dust, I praise ; 
And though the embers of my life grow cold, 
And snow is on my hair, and in mine eyes 
Doubt and a gathering darkness, Him I bless 
That He hath led me just before the end 
As to a mountain-summit, whence I see, 
Not darkly, but with most ineffable light, 
A fair long prospect of regenerate days ; 
And even as one upon a lofty height 
I hear afar-off very faint and sweet 
The murmur of glad cities, the deep hum 
Of happy millions moving to and fro 
In gentle interchange of life and love. 



4o6 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

I do believe that land God gave to us, 

That land which robbers pillaged in the night, 

That land we have redeem'd with precious 

blood, 
Is blest henceforth, and the bright sword I 

hold 
May in the strong hands of my son become 
No firebrand but a symbol ; not a thing 
Left like the steel of some old warrior 
To rust upon the wall, but ever bright 
And beauteous ; not a firebrand, not a threat, 
But part of pomp and peaceful pageantry, 
Flashing with memorable light and fire 
Into the hungry eyes of those who prowl 
Like wolves around the pastures and the 

pens 
Where the Great Shepherd in the beginning 

set 
The nations of the earth. Yea, may it rise, 
Beautiful, terrible, and fiery fair, 
Like to the living sword that trembled o'er 
The golden Gates of Eden ; and beneath 
May very Eden blossom : light and flowers, 
Rich vineyards, yellow harvests, hamlets glad 



THE TEUTON AGAINST PARIS. 407 

Bosom'd in greenness, churches whose fair 

spires 
Gleaming in sunlight point the path to 

peace, — 
The Land of the great River, yours and 

mine, 
Our birthright, given back at last by God 
To be the heirloom of our latest seed ! 

The Chiefs. 

Flash the sword ! — and even as thunder 

Utter ye one living voice, — 
While the watching nations wonder, 

Hills of Fatherland, rejoice : 
Echo ! — echo back our prayers and accla- 
mations ! 

Chorus. 

France, O Mother ! lie and hearken, 

Make no bitterer sign of woe, 
Here within thee all things darken, 
All things brighten with thy foe : 
Hush thy weeping; still thy bitter lamenta- 
tions. 



4o8 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

The Chiefs. 

Flash the sword ! — A voice is flowing 
From the Baltic bound in white, 

Though 'tis blowing chill and snowing, 
Blue-eyed Teutons see the light. 
And the far white hills of Norway hear the 

crying. 

Chorus. 

Thou too hearkenest, Mother dearest, 
Thou too hearkenest through thy tears, 

And thou tremblest as thou hearest, 
For 'tis thunder in thine ears; 
And thou gazest on the dead and on the 

dying. 

The Chiefs. 

Liibeck answers and rejoices, 

Though her dead are brought to her ; 

Potsdam thunders ; there are voices 
In the fields of Hanover ; 
And the spirits of the lonely Hartz awaken. 



THE TEUTON AGAINST PARIS. 409 



Chorus. 

And in France's vales and mountains 

Hands are wrung and tears are shed ; 
Women sit by village fountains, 
And the water bubbles red. 
O comfort, O be of comfort — ye forsaken ! 

The Chiefs. 

O'er Bavarian woods and rivers, — 
Where the Brunswick heather waves, — 

On the glory goes and quivers 
Through the Erzgebirge caves ; 
And the swords of Styria gleam like moonlit 

water. 

Chorus. 

There is silence, there is weeping 
On the bloody banks of Seine, 
And the unburied dead are sleeping 
In the fields of trampled grain ; 
While the roadside Christs stare down on 
fields of slaughter. 



41 o THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

The Chiefs. 

Flash the Sword ! Where need is sorest, 

Sitting in the lonely night, 
While the wind in the Black Forest 

Moans, the woodman sees the light ; 
And the hunters wind the horn and hail each 
other. 

Chorus. 

Strasbourg sits among her ashes 

With a last despairing cry, 
East and west red ruin flashes 

With a red light on the sky. 
Not a word ! Sit yet and hearken, O my 
mother ! 

The Chiefs. , 

Flash the sword ! The glades of Baden 

Echo ; Jena laughs anon ; 
Dresden old and Stuttgart gladden, 

There is mirth in Ratisbon : — 
And underneath the Linden there is leaping. 



THE TEUTON AGAINST PARIS. \\\ 

Chorus. 

In thine arms the horror tarries, 

And the sword-flash gleams on thee, 
Hide thy funeral face, O Paris, 
Do not hearken ; do not see ; 
Electra, clasp thine urn — and hush thy weep- 
ing. 

The Chiefs. 

Hamburg kindles, and her women 

Sadly smile remembering all ; 
There are bitter smiles in Bremen, 
Where Vandamme's fierce feet did fall ; 
But the Katzbach, O the Katzbach laugheth 
loudly ! 

Chorus. 

Comfort, mother ! hear not, heed not ; 

Let the dead bury the dead ! 
Fold thy powerless hands and plead not, 
They remember sorrows fled, 
And their dead go by them, silently and 
proudly. 



412 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

The Chiefs. 

O that Fritz's soul could hear it 

In the walks of Sans Souci ! 
O to waken Liitzow's spirit, 

Bluchers too, the grim and free ; 
And the Jager, the wild Jager, would they 
listen'd ! 

Chorus. 

Comfort, mother ! O cease weeping ! 

Let the past bury the past : 
Faces of the slain and sleeping 

Gleam along upon the blast. 
Yea, 'twas " Leipsic " that they murmur'd as 
they glisten'd. 

The Chiefs. 

All the land of the great River 

Slowly brightens near and far ; 
Lost for once, and saved for ever, 
Korner's spirit like a star 
Shooteth past, and all remember the begin- 
ning. 



THE TEUTON AGAINST PARIS. 413 

Chorus. 

They are rising, they are winging, 

Spirits of her singers dead, 
"lis an old song they are singing — 
Fold thy hands and bow thy head — 
But they sing for thee too, gentle to thy sin- 



The Chiefs. 

And the River to the ocean 

Rolls ; and all its castles dim 
Gleam ; and with a shadowy motion, 
Like a mist upon its brim, 
Rise the Dead, — and look this way with shin- 
ing faces. 

Chorus. 

Thine, too, rise ! — and darkly cluster, 
Moaning sad around thee now, 

In their eyes there is no lustre, 
They are cold as thry cold brow — 
Let them vanish ; let them sleep in their dark 

places. 



4H THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 



The Chiefs. 

Flash the sword ! In the fair valleys 
Where the scented Neckar flows, 

Fair-hair'd Teutons lift the chalice, 
And the winter vineyard grows, 
And the almond forests tremble into blossom. 



Chorus. 

On thy vineyards the cold daylight 
Gleams, and they are deathly chill — 

Women wander in the grey light, 
And the lean trees whistle shrill ; 
Hold thine urn, O martyr mother, to thy 

bosom. 

The Chiefs. 

Flash the sword! — Sweet notes of pleasure 
O'er the Rhenish upland swell, 

And the overhanging azure 
Sees itself in the Moselle. 
All the land of the great River gleams and 

hearkens ! 



THE TEUTON AGAINST PARIS. 415 

Chorus. 

Dost thou hear them ? dost thou see them r 
There 'tis gladness, here 'tis pain ; 

One great spirit comes to free them 
But he holds thee with a chain. 
All the land of the great City weeps and 

darkens ! 

The Chiefs. 

River of the mighty people, 

Broaden to the sea and flow — 
Mirror tilth and farm and steeple, 

Darken with boats that come and go. 
Flow gently, like a babe that smiles and 
prattles. 

Chorus. 

Yea ! and though thou flow for ever, 

Bright and bloodless as to-day, 
Scarcely wilt thou wash, O River, 
Thy dark load of dead away, 
O bloody River ! O field of many battles ! 



416 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

The Chiefs. 

On with great immortal waters 
Brightening to a day divine, 

Through the fields of many slaughters 
Freely roll, O German Rhine. 
Let the Teuton drink thy wine and wax the 

stronger. 

Chorus. 

On and on, O mighty River, 

Flow through lands of corn and vine — 
Turn away, O France, for ever, 

Look no more upon the Rhine ; 
On the River of many sorrows look no 
longer. 

The Chiefs. 

Lo ! the white Alps for a token 
With the wild aurora gleam, 
And the Spectre of the Brocken 
Stands aloft with locks that stream, — 
All the land of the great River can behold it ! 



THE TEUTON AGAINST PARIS. \\~ 

Chorus. 

Hide thine eyes and look not thither ! 

For in answer to their cries, 
Fierce the Phantasm gazeth hither 
With an Avenging Angel's eyes ; 
It is fading, and the mists of storm enfold it ! 



The Kaiser. The Chiefs. The Imperial 
Chancellor. The Governor of Paris. 

Chancellor. 

Behold ! where even in our triumph-hour 
Comes one with feet that linger, head that 

droops, 
And eyes that pour their fire upon the ground. 

Chorus. 
Woe to thee, Paris ; then thy cup is full. 

Governor. 

O Sire and Princes, leaders of the host, 
Kings, soldiers, strangers, hither have I come 
E ^ 



4i 8 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

Reluctant as a captive led to death, 

Woe in mine heart and on mine eyelids tears, 

To offer up my sword, and on my knees, 

Not used to bend their joints to mortal men, 

To hold your skirts imploring in the name 

Of the Imperial City overthrown, 

Paris, the fallen Regent of the world. 

There Fire hath cast our fairest temples down, 

And now in the black embers flickers faint 

Ready to spring once more ; and Frost is 

there, 
Most silent, with the paralysing touch 
Of skeleton fingers, feeling for the heart 
Under the thin rags blown apart by wind ; 
And, worst and direst, in the open square, 
Witless upon a pile of fleshless bones 
Sits Famine, smiling with a hungry eye 
At Pestilence, who at her dark feet heaps 
The blotch'd and swollen faces of the dead 
In silence ; and these four full well have done 
Your dreadful bidding, serving as they do 
The strong man ever against the weak. But 

now, 
I bid ye, I beseech ye, call them off, 



THE TEUTON AGAINST PARIS. 419 

And in the name of God and Christ His son, 
Uplift your hands, and leave us, and depart. 
I do not think your eyes may contemplate 
More closely what ye have done; but silently, 
Seeing we lay our arms down at your feet 
And seeing we are broken as a reed, 
Turn ye your conquering faces otherwhere 
And leave this City once named " Beautiful " 
To cleanse herself and feed her hungry brood 
And wear her sackcloth, praying all alone 
With open gates for food, and warmth, and 

light, 
The homeward flying swallow and green 

shoots 
Heralding harvest. For the sad red sun 
Must come and go for many a dreadful day, 
Ere these things ye have sent against her life 
Perish forgotten ; and for many a day 
Earth must be open'd for the countless dead 
And dying ; and indeed the City sad 
Needeth the darkness of her own deep shame, 
That she may hide herself from all men's 

sight, 
Until she is clothed, and the piteous wounds 



420 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

Upon her gentle flesh are wholly heal'd. 
Wherefore, O leaders of the Teuton host, 
Accept our swords, our lives, but turn aside 
Your faces, seeking not to look upon 
More sorrow, nor to pass the dreadful gates ; 
For should ye gaze on our poor Paris now, 
The scorn of your proud eyes, as sharp as 

steel, 
Would stab her to the heart and she would 

die : 
Or madden'd, anguish'd, with her dying 

breath, 
Gather the last strength of supreme despair, 
And seek to drag ye with her unto doom. 

Kaiser. 

Yield up thy sword, and waste no further 

breath ; 
Turn thine appeal to God, and go thy way. 

The Chiefs. 
Glory to God. Long live the Emperor f 



THE TEUTON AGAINST PARIS. 421 

Chancellor. 

J Tis finished ; at our feet great France lies 
dead. 

Chorus. 

O God who leadest on the mortal race, 

Whither they know not, through the won- 
drous years, 
Thou mystery whose sad meaning none may 
trace, 
Light on our eyes and Music in our ears, 
Spirit that punishest and scatterest grace, 

Lord of all losses and all doubts and fears, 
Shedding upon the self-same hour and place 
The doubt that maddens and the faith that 

cheers, — 
Is there ever a smile upon a living face 

That doth not mean some living face's 
tears ? 

END OF THE TRILOGY. 



EPILOGUE. 



EPILOGUE. 



Enter Time. 



O Spirits seated in your just degrees, 
Greater and lesser, wiser and most wise, 
All beautiful and some most beautiful, 
Thus far have ye beheld our Tragedy 
Rise to its crest of meaning like a wave, 
And break to the low murmur of mere foam 
Call'd glory. Ye have seen the Star of France 
Rise bloody ; ye have seen it wax and burn, 
Suffusing and consuming other lights 
Around it ; ye have watch'd it wane and 

fade; 
Ye have beheld it rise i' the west again 
With sicklier and yet less baleful light — 
Less bloody, yet more like those leprous- 
spheres 
Which follow and proclaim a pestilence ; 



426 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

And lastly, ye have seen it die once more 
Frail as a taper in the wind of war, 
While rising suddenly as the round moon 
In harvest storms, Germania brighteneth 
Above the wild eyes of the wondering world. 

Is this the end ? I hear ye smiling ask. 
Why, God forbid. Tho' for a time we pause, 
We shall continue our strange Tragedy 
To-morrow and to-morrow, for indeed 
The end is dark even to all us who play ; 
For mark you, much must yet be said and 

done, 
Many strange Leaders go and come, ere 

Heaven 
Sees the last scene and awful spectacle 
Concluding the strange Drama of the Soul. 
Thus far of evil there hath issued forth 
This good — a lesser evil ; and the air 
Is clearer for the thunders ye have heard 
Shaking the thrones of Europe and appalling 
The foolish-hearted people. Ye have seen, 
How Buonaparte swept away with fire . 
The living lies and blots of monarchy ; 



EPILOGUE. 427 

How, when at last the Man became a pest, 

The lesser evil fair as present good 

Rose and destroyed him ; how by slow 

degrees 
That lie of lies, the sandstone Church of 

Rome, 
Was slowly decomposing with the wash 
Of the great tide of years ; how Germany, 
Grown subtle to the conscience and the will, 
Sat like an eagle breeding in a cave, 
Nursing her strength and teaching her fierce 

young 
Dark secret flights to try their fledgeling 

wings ; 
How in these memorable later days 
Caesar's last Ghost rose up and walk'd abroad. 
So hideous in the open common day 
That Csesarism, second lie of lies, 
Perish'd for ever from the face of things ; 
How, in his turn, above the wandering world, 
Stands up the Kaiser, with the living lie 
Of Right Divine upon his lips, yet blest 
For the time being as a feeble good, 
Because the base of his imperial throne 



428 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

Is set upon the conscience and the will 
Of a great people now awakening 
From torpor to a living hope and aim. 

Wherefore, I say, these Kings whom ye have 

seen 
Were God's unwilling servants, but for whom 
The Titan Soul of Man were still asleep, 
Tranced to sorrow and forgetfulness ; 
And now that Soul is waken' d, now, O friends, 
Begins the serious matter of our play, 
For scene by scene we purpose to set forth, 
To the same audience and on other nights, 
The mighty spiritual brightening, 
And the last laying of these ghosts of Kings. 

" O foolish mortal race," I hear ye cry, 

" Who will, yet will not learn, and live, and 

take 
Their birthright, and be free ! " Ay, friends, 

indeed, 
Man is a scholar eager indeed to learn, 
But most forgetful having learn'd. His wits 
Go wandering, his vacant eyes are caught 
By foolish pictures and by idle gleams, 



EPILOGUE. 429 

Glibly he learns and instantly forgets. 
Again, again, and o'er and o'er again, 
He tries the same old lesson, utters it 
So loud and well that out of every star 
Angels look out with gleaming eyes and 

hope ; — 
But in a moment his bewildered brain 
Shuts like a lantern, and is dark as night. 
O spirits seated in your just degrees, 
O lights, O lamps, O principles divine, 
Be patient. Of each failure, of each loss, 
Of each sad repetition, in his soul 
Something remains — a word — a gleam — a 

thought — 
A dim sensation — a faint memory — 
And these perchance are working under God 
More strangely and more surely than ye know. 

Ay, but I weary. O I weary. Sleep 

Were better. Would the mighty play were 

o'er! 
Again and yet again the same old scenes, 
The same set speeches, the same blind de- 
spairs 



430 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

And miserable hopes, the same sick fear 
Of quitting the poor stage ; so that I lose 
All count of act and scene and speech, con- 
fuse 
Scenes present and scenes past, actors long 

still 
With actors flaunting now their little hour. 
How like each other all the players speak 
Who play the tyrants ! how the kings and 

queens 
Each follow each like bees from out a hive ! 
Still the old speeches, the old scenes, despite 
The surface-change of costume and the trick 
Of posture. Ay, I weary ! O to see 
The great black Curtain fall, the music cease, 
All darken, the House empty of its host 
Of strange intelligences who behold 
Our Drama, till the great Hand, creeping 

forth 
In silence, one by one puts out the lights. 



EPILUDE 

BEFORE THE CURTAIN. 



EPILUDE. 



Enter, on the stage, the Chancellor, followed 
by a dark throng of Actors. They kneel. 



The Lord. 
Now what are ye who hither come and kneel ? 

Chancellor. 
The poor spent players of the Tragedy. 

The Lord. 

First, ye who played the lowliest parts of all, 

Fulfilling them with your best courtesy, 

Ye who were slain and made the sport of 

Kings, 
Come hither to my side ; for thro' your masks 
I see the fairest of my host. 
F F 



434 the drama of kings. 

Spirits . 

We come ! 

The Lord. 

And ye who spake a little speech and went, 
And stalk' d upon the stage in rich attire, 
Go by, sit lower. Where is Lucifer ? 



Chancellor [unmasking). 
Here. 



The Lord. 

Thy dark part was excellently played- 
A trifle dull, and modell'd after him 
Who played the part of Man of Destiny. 



Lucifer 
Master of souls — that part I also played. 

The Lord. 
And Buonaparte. 



EPILUDE. 435 



Lucifer. 



My pet character! — 
Sire, I prepared the play at thy command, 
And being thy liege servant plotted out 
The parts to each soul as stage-manager ; 
Nor willingly would have myself essayed 
The mighty monologues and leading parts, 
But that the other actors, one and all, 
Were slow of study and too scrupulous 
In the great text they spake. 
To all the staff I offer'd Buonaparte — 
None would essay it of our company ; 
Wherefore I made it mine, and for like 

reasons 
Kept to myself the other leading parts. 



The Lord. 

None could have played them better, or so 

well : 
And never since the earthly Play began 
Hast thou, mine evil Angel wrought for good, 
Spoke the dark speech Divine more willingly. 



436 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

Lucifer. 

Since we have played the drama to Thy 

liking, 
Deign, King of Heaven, 
To hear our Chorus sing the Final Song 
Or Epode. A poor actor on the scene, 
Who in the crowded background stood and 

gaped, 
A mortal poet, is the author, Sire ! 
It is a mere cantata — one of those 
Wild songs which the obscure upon the stage 
(Nobodies who would fain be somebodies, 
Starving king-haters who would fain play 

kings) 
Have ever made to while away the time ; 
And Thou, whose calm eyes measure all to 

come, 
Will smile to see how oft this poet tries 
To peer into the future and to sound 
The advent of thy Kingdom ; yet, indeed, 
The thing is pleasant to the ear when sung — 
Small service is true service — and we know 
God is not critical. 



EPILUDE. 137 

The Lord 

Tis well. Sing on. 

Chorus. 

The Soul shall arise. 
Power and its vanity, 
Pride's black insanity, 
Lust and its revelry 
Shall with war's devilry 
Pass from humanity. 

The Soul shall arise. 

Semi-Chorus I. 

As from night springs golden-winged morrow, 
As a bloom on the grey bough in the May. 

Semi-Chorus II. 

From darkness, and from coldness, and from 
sorrow 
He shall issue living to the day. 



438 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

Semi-Chorus I. 

As a wild, wild rose-tree when 'tis snowing 
Feels the unborn roses and is bright, 

Pants the Earth, and, though the storm be 
blowing, 
Knows the birth within her day and night. 



Semi-Chorus II. 

Like a fount by spring's warm breath unfrozen, 
Like a song-bird waking in the nest, 

On the breast of Earth awakes the chosen, 
First and last, the brightest and the best. 



Chorus of the Dead. 

Where we sleeping lie, where we sleeping lie, 

We hear the sound and our spirits cry ; 

As we sleeping lie in the Lord's own Breast, 

Calm, so calm, for the place is blest, 

We, who died that this might be, 

Souls of the great, and wise, and free ; 



EPILUDE. 439 

Souls that sung, and souls that sighed, 
Souls that pointed to God and died ; 
Souls of martyrs, souls of the wise ; 
Souls of women with weeping eyes ; 
Souls whose graves like waves of the sea 

Cover the world from west to east ; 
Souls whose bodies ached painfully, 

Till they broke to prophetic moan and 
ceased ; 
Souls that sleep in the gentle night, 
We hear the cry and we see the light. 
Did we die in vain ? did we die in vain ? 
Ah ! that indeed were the bitterest pain ! 
But we see the light and we bless the cry, 
Where we sleeping lie, where we sleeping lie. 

Chorus of Citizens. 

He cometh late, this greatest under God, 
Promised for countless years, he cometh 

late— 
Where shall he dwell ? The cities of our 

state 

Are level with the sod. 



44o THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

Shall he upbuild them then ? Meantime, we 

wait 
And see black footsteps where our martyrs 

trod. 
He cometh late, forsooth, he cometh late, 

This greatest under God ! 
Nor do we see the earth that he will 
claim 
Is riper yet than on the natal day. 
All lands are bloody, and a crimson flame 

Eats Hope's poor heart away. 
Where shall he turn for peace ? whom shall 

he trust for stay ? 
The anarchs of the world still sit and 

sway 
The hearts of men to evil ; — Hunger and 

Thirst 
Moan at the palace door; and birds of 

prey 
Still scream above the harvest as at first. 
Should he then come at all, 
This Soul on whom ye call, 
How should he dwell on earth ? would he not 
find it curst ? 



EPILUDE. 441 



Semi-Chorus I. 



As the young lamb by its dam runs leaping, 
As the young bird to the old bough clings, 

Born to Earth in darkness and in weeping, 
He shall cherish her from whom he springs. 



Semi-Chorus II. 

He shall guide her blind feet very slowly, 
He shall guide her as none other can, 

He shall crown her brows and hail her holy, 
Mother of the mighty Soul of man. 



Chorus. 

The Soul shall arise. 
Sweetness and sanity, 
Slaying all vanity, 
Shall to love's holiness, 
Meekness and lowliness, 
Shepherd humanity. 

The Soul shall arise. 



442 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

Semi-Chorus I. 

He shall rise a creature and a spirit, 
Guiding Earth, yet guided as they go. 

If her low voice speaketh he shall hear it : 
Secrets of her bygone he shall know. 

Semi-Chorus II. 

He shall hear her voice and answer brightly ; 

They shall wander on by ways untrod ; 
He shall rest upon her bosom nightly, 

Nestling there and looking up to God. 

Semi-Chorus I. 

Shall they dwell for evermore together, 
Earth and the fair creature of her breast r 

Nay ; but on some day of golden weather 
They shall find a pleasant spot and rest. 

Semi-Chorus II. 

Peace ! ye souls who make sad acclamation, 
Wringing hands o'er broken towns of stone, 

Soon the Soul shall build a habitation 
Fairer than the fairest overthrown. 



EPILUDE. 443 

Epode. 

Comfort, O true and free, 

Soon shall there rise for ye 
A City fairer far than all ye plan ; 

Built on a rock of strength, 

It shall arise at length, 
Stately and fair and vast, the City meet for 
man ! 

Towering to yonder skies 

Shall the fair City rise 
In the sweet dawning of a day more pure : 

House, mart, and street, and square, 

Yea, and a fane for prayer — 
Fair, and yet built by hands, strong, for it 
shall endure. 

In the fair City then 

Shall walk white-robed men, 

Wash'd in the river of peace that watereth it ; 
Woman with man shall meet 
Freely in mart and street — 

At the great council-board woman with man 
shall sit. 



444 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

Hunger and Thirst and Sin 
Shall never pass therein. 
Fed with pure dews of love, children shall 
grow. 

Fearless and fair and free, 
Honour'd by all that see, 
Virgins in golden zones shall walk as white 
as snow. 

There, on the fields around, 
All men shall till the ground, 
Corn shall wave yellow, and bright rivers 
stream ; 

Daily, at set of sun, 
All, when their work is done, 
Shall watch the heavens yearn down and the 
strange starlight gleam. 

In the fair City of men 

All shall be silent then, 
While, on a reverent lute, gentle and low, 

Some holy Bard shall play 

Ditties divine, and say 
Whence those that hear have come, whither 
in time they go. 



EPILUDE. 445 

No man of blood shall dare 

Wear the white mantle there ; 
No man of lust shall walk in street or mart ; 

Yet shall the Magdalen 

Walk with the citizen ; 
Yet shall the sinner stand gracious and pure 
of heart. 



Now, while days come and go, 

Doth the fair City grow, 
Surely its stones are laid in sun and moon. 

Wise men and pure prepare 

Ever this City fair. 
Comfort, O ye that weep ; it shall arise full 
soon. 

When, stately, fair, and vast, 

It doth uprise at last, 
Who shall be King thereof, say, O ye wise \ — 

When the last blood is spilt, 

When the fair City is built, 
Unto the throne thereof the Monarch shall 
arise. 



446 THE DRAMA OF KINGS. 

Flower of blessedness, 

Wrought out of heart's distress, 
Light of all dreams of saintly men who died, 

He shall arise some morn 

One Soul of many born, 
Lord of the realms of peace, heir of the 
Crucified. 

O but he lingereth, 
Drawing mysterious breath 

In the dark womb where he was cast as seed. 
Strange was the seed to sow, 
Dark is the growth and slow ; 

Still hath he lain for long — now he grows 
quick indeed. 

Quicken, O Soul of Man ! 
Perfect the mystic plan — 
Come from the womb where thou art darkly 
wrought ; 

Wise men and pure prepare 
Ever thy City fair — 
Come when the City is built, sit on the Throne 
of Thought. 



EPILUDE. 447 

Earth and all things that be 
Wait, watch, and yearn for thee, 
To thee all living things stretch hands be- 
reaven ; — 

Perfect and sweet and bright, 
Lord of the City of Light, 
Last of the fruits of Earth, first of the fruits of 
Heaven. 



THE END. 



NOTES. 



G G 



NOTES. 



Page 3. 

Close round it snowing 

Are the Seraphs white, 

And next ?nore dim 

The Cherubim ; 

And from rings to rings, &c. 

un cerchio d'igne. . . . 
E questo era d'un altro circuncinto, 
E quel dal terzo, e'l terzo poi dal quarto, &c, 

E quello avea la fiamma piu sincera, 
Cui men distava la favilla pura, 
Credo, perocche piu di lei s'invera. 

Dante, Par., Cant, xxviii. 



, Page 8. 

Have ye forgot the sin of Fhrynichos ? 

This sin was the celebration of the miseries of the Ionians, in 
a tragedy called the Capture of Miletos. When, however, 
two years after the Battle of Salamis, Phrynichos chronicled the 
defeat of Xerxes, he met with an enthusiastic reception, and 
his success encouraged ./Eschylos to write the Persrn, — in 
some respects the very finest of the extant Greek tragedies, for 
the very reasons which make it inferior in ghastly tremendous- 
ness to the Orestean Trilogy. 



452 NOTES. 

Page 23. 

Enter Stein. 

Of Stein's character as a patriot and a statesman, it is un- 
necessary to say one word. How cruelly Prussia rewarded him 
for his services is well known ; but the day of his apotheosis is 
at hand. We all know Arndt's songs, and his soul through 
them. Jahn is less familiar to all but historical students ; he 
was, however, a great creature — a source of constant inspiration 
to German patriots, and particularly the Gymnasiarchs. For 
particulars concerning these men, and many others as great in 
soul, who, rising in the moment of peril to save their country, 
were first welcomed, and after victory treated as lunatics and 
criminals, see Richter (" Geschichte des Deutschen Freiheit- 
skrieges) and the volume called " Geschichte des Liitzowschen 
Frei-corps," published in 1826, at Berlin. 

Page 28. 

O spirits dreaming, &c. 

Omnes enim per se divum natura necesse est, &c. 
Luc., I. 45. 

Page 40. 

But yestermom the old man Wieland stood 
Enlarging his weak vision for an hour 
Upon the demigod, who of Greece and Rome 
Talhed like a petulant schoolboy. 

Menzel (Geschichte des Deutschens), while justly inveighing 
against the literary heroes of Weimar, who were incapable of a 
patriotic sentiment, alleges that Wieland was kept standing an 
hour in Napoleon's presence, and when, unable from his old 
age to continue on his feet, he asked permission to retire, Napo- 
leon is said to have considered it an unwarrantable liberty. 
This is manifestly unjust to Buonaparte, who reserved all his 
brutality for queens and political opponents. Wieland himself, 
in his letters, gives an excellent account of the interview : it is 
more interesting and less familiar than the interview with Goethe. 



NOTES. 455 

"I had not been many minutes there before Napoleon came 
across the room towards us : the duchess then formally pre- 
sented me to him ; and he addressed me affably with some 
words of compliment, looking me steadily in the face. Few- 
persons have appeared to me to see through a man so rapidly. 
He instantly perceived that, notwithstanding my celebrity, I 
was a plain unassuming old person, and, as he seemed desirous 
of making a good impression on me, he at once assumed the 
manner best adapted to attain his end. I never saw a man in 
appearance calmer, plainer, milder, or more unpretending. No 
trace was visible about him of the consciousness that he was a 
great monarch. He talked to me like an old acquaintance with 
his equal, and, w T hich was very rare with him, chatted with me 
exclusively an entire hour and a half, to the great surprise of 
all who were present. At length, about midnight, I began to 
feel inconvenience from standing so long, and took the liberty 
of requesting his majesty's permission to withdraw. ' Allez 
done,' said he, in a very friendly tone ; ' bon sot/-!' The more 
remarkable traits of our interview were as follows : — The previous 
play having made Csesar the subject of our conversation, Napo- 
leon observed that he was one of the greatest characters in all 
history ;] and that indeed he would have have been without 
exception the greatest but for one blunder. I was about to 
inquire to what blunder he alluded, when he seemed to read 
the question in my eye, and continued, ' Csesar knew the men 
who wanted to get rid of him, and he ought to have been rid of 
them first.' If Napoleon could have read all that passed in my 
mind, he would have perceived me saying, ' Such a blunder 
will never be laid to your charge.' From Csesar our conversa- 
tion turned to the Roman people ; and he praised warmly their 
military and their political system ; while the Greeks, on the 
contrary, seemed to stand low in his opinion. The eternal 
contest between their little republics was not formed, he said, 
to produce anything great ; but the Romans were always intent 
on grand purposes, and thus created the mighty colossus which 
bestrode the world. I pleaded for the arts and literature of the 
Greeks ; but he treated both with contempt, and said that they 
only served to make objects of dispute. 

"He preferred Ossian to Homer. In poetry he professed to 



454 NOTES. \ 

value only the sublime, the energetic, and the pathetic writers, 
especially the tragic poets. Of Ariosto he spoke in some such 
terms as those which had been used by Cardinal Hippolito, of 
Este ; not aware, however, I think, that in doing this he was 
giving me a box on the ear. For anything humorous he seemed 
to have no liking; and, notwithstanding the flattering friendli- 
ness of his apparent manner, he repeatedly gave me the idea of 
his being cast from bronze. 

" At length, however, he had put me so much at my ease, that 
I asked him how it happened that the public worship, which he 
had in some degree reformed in France, had not been rendered 
more philosophic, and more on a par with the spirit of the 
times. 'My dear Wi eland,' he replied, 'worship is not made 
for philosophers ; they believe neither in me nor in my priest- 
hood. As for those who do believe, you cannot give them or 
leave them wonders enough. If I had to make a religion for 
philosophers, it should be just the reverse.' In this tone the 
conversation went on for some time ; and Buonaparte professed 
so much scepticism, as to question whether Jesus Christ had 
ever existed. This is very common every-day scepticism ; so 
that in his free thinking I saw nothing to admire, but the open- 
ness with which he exposed it." : 

Page 57. 

Enter Louisa of Prussia. 

I have here taken a slight liberty with history. The high- 
minded queen's famous interviews with Buonaparte took place 
at Tilsit, a year previous to the Congress at Erfurt in 1808, and 
two years after Buonaparte, standing at the tomb of Frederick 
Sanspareil, had publicly aspersed Louisa's fame. 



Page 69. 

Compound of Scapth and Olympian Jove. 

So the Abbe de Pradt, in his savage character of Napoleon, 
against whom he felt all the bitterness of a slighted tool : — 
" L'homme qui, unissant dan ses bizarreiies tout ce qu'il y a de 



NOTES. 455 



plus eleve et de plus vil parmi les mortels, de plus majestueux 
dans l'eclat de la souverainete, de plus peremptoire dans le 
commandment, avec ce qu'il y a d'ignoble et de plus lache 
jusque dans ses plus grands attentats, joignant les guet-apens 
aux detronements, presente une espice de Jupiter- Scapin qui 
n'avait pas encore paru sur la scene du monde." 



Page 73. 

On Jena Prussia's feeble body died, &c. 

Everbody has followed the miserable campaign of 1806. 
" Les Prussiens sont encore plus stupides que les Autrichiens," 
cried Buonaparte, amazed at the wretched pottering of the 
Duke of Brunswick, adding afterwards, on hearing that the 
enemy expected him from Erfurt when he was already at Nu- 
remberg, "lis se tromperont furieusement, ces perruques ! " 



Wliy, how now, hath Pope Pius lost his wits ? &*c. 

There can be no doubt that Napoleon's sharp dispute with, 
and subsequent savage treatment of, the aged Pope made the 
French supremacy trebly odious to the Catholic population. 
Pius VII. showed a spirit worthy of a grander cause. Of course, 
he was contending against the avalanche ; but even such oppo- 
sition hastened its rush into the gulf that awaited it. 



Page 117. 

O Spirit of Man ! 
A foolish Titan ! 

This picture of the Spirit of Man mast not be read with any 
reference to the shallow and barbarous myth of Prometheus, 
which represents the demigod-like spirit of Humanity contend- 
ing against a Deity of unutterable malevolence- 



456 NOTES. 

Page 128. 
Light of the Lotus and all mortal eyes, 
Whose orbit nations like to heliotropes 
Shall follow with lesser circle and sweet sound ! 

Proclus, in his "Discourse on Magic," preserved in the 
Latin translation of Ficinus, has the following exquisitely- 
beautiful passage : — 

" In the same manner as lovers gradually advance from that 
beauty which is apparent in sensible forms to that which is 
divine, so the ancient priests, when they considered that there 
is a certain alliance and sympathy in natural things to each 
other, and of things manifest to occult powers, and discovered 
that all things subsist in all, fabricated a sacred science 
from this mutual sympathy and similarity. Thus they recog- 
nised things supreme in such as are subordinate, and the 
subordinate in the supreme ; in the celestial regions, terrene 
properties subsisting in a casual and celestial manner, and in 
earth celestial properties, but according to a terrene condition. 
For how shall we account for those plants called heliotropes — 
that is, attendants on the sun, moving in correspondence with 
the revolution of its orb ; or for selenitropes, attendants on the 
moon, turning in exact conformity to her motion ? It is because 
all things pray and hymn the leaders of their respective orders ; 
but some intellectually, and others rationally ; some in a natural 
and others after a sensible manner. Hence the sun-flower, as 
far as it is able, moves in a circular dance towards the sun, so 
that if any one could hear the pulsation made by its circuit in 
the ah, he would perceive something composed by a sound of 
this kind, in honour of its being such as a plant is capable of 
framing. . Hence, too, we may behold the sun and moon in the 
earth, although according to a terrene quality ; but in the celestial 
regions, all plants, and stones, and animals possessing an intel- 
lectual life according to a celestial nature. Now the ancients, 
having contemplated this mutual sympathy of things, applied 
for occult purposes both celestial and terrene natures, by means 
of which, through a certain similitude, they deduce divine virtues 
into this inferior abode. For, indeed, similitude itself is a suffi- 
cient cause of binding things together in union and content. 



NOTES. 457 

Thus, if a piece of paper is heated, and afterwards placed near 
a lamp, though it does not touch the fire, the paper will be sud- 
denly inflamed, and the flame will descend from the superior to 
the inferior parts. This heated paper we may compare to a 
certain relation of inferiors to superiors, and its approximation 
to the lamp, to the opportune use of things according to time, 
place, and matter. But the procession of fire into the paper 
aptly represents the movement of divine light, to that nature 
which is capable of its reception. Lastly, the inflammation of 
the paper may be compared to the deification of mortals, and to 
the illumination of material natures, which are afterwards earned 
upwards like the enkindled paper, from a certain participation 
of divine seed. 

"Again, the lotus, before the rising of the sun, folds its leaves 
into itself, but gradually expands them on its rising, unfolding 
them in proportion to the sun's ascent to the zenith ; but as 
gradually contracting them, as that luminary descends to the 
west. Hence this plant, by the expansion and contraction ot 
its leaves, appears no less to honour the sun, than men by the 
gestures of their, eyelids and the motion of their lips." 

Page 161. 
Strange are the bitter things 
God wreaks on cruel Kings ; 
Sad is the cup drunk up 

By Kings accurst, &c. 
A portion of this chorus is versified from Dio Chrysostom's 
"Treatise on Arbitrary Government." "Napoleon Fallen," 
when published in its first rough shape, opened with a chorus 
of German citizens, somewhat too colloquial in manner to suit 
the mystic quality of the scenes which followed, and therefore 
now suppressed. Most of the other choruses are new, and 
those retained are entirely altered and remodelled. 

Page 239. 
With Sin and Death our mothers' milk was sour, 
The womb wherein we grew from hour to hour 
Gather 'd pollution dark from the polluted frame. 
This measure is used once or twice by Slielley. 



458 NOTES. 



Page 250. 

Yet he, too, fell. Early or late, all fall. 
No fruit can hang for ever on the tree, &c. 

An eminent friend " admits " that I do full justice to Napo- 
leon on the intellectual side, but "is inclined to dispute" his 
title to a " moral consciousness," and to question whether he is 
"capable" of any such "remorse" as I portray. This is an- 
other illustration of how many meanings men may find in a 
poem according to their different lights. So far from attempting 
to represent the speaker as feeling mere " remorse," I was por- 
traying, in his final soliloquy, a mood of unutterable perversity 
— a line of thought only possible to a fourth-rate intellect in 
which the moral consciousness was virtually inert and dead. 
From my own point of view, so utter was the wicked hopeless- 
ness of this soliloquy, that I should certainly have altered it, 
had my conscience not told me that every word was dramati- 
cally true. 

Page 288. 
Worshipping Thammnz and all gods obscene. 
See the superb passage in " Paradise Lost," Book I., line 446. 
Thammuz came next behind, 
Whose annual M'ound in Lebanon allured 
The Syrian damsels to lament his fate 
In amorous ditties all a summer's day, 
While smooth Adonis, &c. 



.Page 300. 

How long shall I to this sick world, this mass 
Of social sores, this framework of disease, 
This most iitfected many-member 'd earth, 
Play the hard surgeon ? 

To the reader who may question the moral truth of my 
representation of Count Bismarck, I recommend a careful study 
of his speeches now collected and published at Berlin. Once 



NOTES. 459 

more, however, let me warn the student that the great states- 
man is approached from the divine side, during the highest 
mood of which, from the dramatic point of view, he is capable. 
That mood, unhappily, is a low enough one. 

Page 412. 
to waken Zut:ow's spirit '. 
Richter writes thus of the corps organized by Liitzow during 
the German "War of Liberation : — 

" With the utmost truth we may say that in Lutzow's volun- 
teer corps lived the idea of the war. The universal enthusiasm 
elevated itself here to a noble self-consciousness. In the other 
corps this and that individual might attain the same high 
intellectual position that was the property here of the whole 
body ; the soldier entered with full sympathy into the dignity 
of his personal mission, and fought from clear conviction, not 
from blind impulse. Those loose and roving adventurers that 
to a certain extent will always mix themselves up with a volun- 
teer corps, were kept in check here by the number of high and 
noble spirits with whom they found themselves in daily com- 
munion. Here, whatsoever glowed with holy revenge against 
the recklessness of a foreign tyranny ; whatsoever, in other parts 
of Europe, had manifested itself to be animated by a spirit of 
unyielding animosity to Napoleon's despotism ; whosoever had 
learned, under long-conquering banners, to curse the conquests, 
and . to despise the conqueror, were gathered together in one 
knot of many-coloured but one-hearted fellowship. These men 
were all penetrated by the conviction that, in the nature of 
things, no power merely military, no cunning of the most refined 
despotism, can in the long-run triumph over native freedom of 
thought and tried force of will. They looked upon themselves 
as chosen instruments in the hand of the divine Nemesis, 
and bound 'themselves by a solemn oath to do or to die. They 
were, in fact, virtually free when Germany yet lay in chains ; 
and for them the name of ' Free Corps ' (Frei Schaar) had a 
deeper signifiance than that of free (volunteer) soldiers. Here 
the deed of the individual was heralded by the thought that 
measured inwardly, and rejoiced in the perception of its own 
capability. Here the triumphant spirit of patriotism broke 



460 NOTES. 



forth in song, in poetry, which is the outspread wing of enthu- 
siasm. The prince, the philosopher, the bard served under 
Liitzow, as volunteers, in the humblest capacity. The Prince 
of Karolath, Steffens, Jahn, Theodore Korner, and many other 
consecrated names belonged to this noble body; nay, even 
females, under well-concealed disguises, came boldly forward to 
share with this brave band all the toils and hardships of the 
sterner sex. The enemies of France, from Spain and the Tyrol, 
joined themselves to this corps, trusting to find here, at length, 
that revenge of their righteous cause which a mysterious Provi- 
dence had hitherto delayed. Riedl and Ennemoser commanded 
a body of Tyrolese sharpshooters, and among them was the son 
of Andrew Hofer. From the French armies, Dutchmen and 
Saxons, Westphalians and Altmarkers, rejoiced to belong to the 
" Black Corps " {Die Schwarze Schaar), as these troops, from 
their uniform, were familiarly named. In the whole body there 
was scarcely an individual who, on the plea of personal history 
or qualities, might not claim peculiar distinction. And so free 
were they from all prejudices of class, so jealous in a high self- 
respect, that no person was admitted into their number who 
refused to serve as a common Jager. Their fame has remained 
among the printed records of the war ; a separate volume eter- 
nizes the exploits of a small body of not more than 3,400 



Page 436. 

Deign, King of Heaven, 
To hear our Chorus sing the Final Song 
Or Epode .... 

Thou, whose calm eyes measure all to come, 
Will S7nile to see how oft this poet tries 
To peer into the future and to sound 
The adveiit of Thy Kingdom. 

A crude early version of this " final song " was printed as a 
sequel to "Napoleon Fallen;" but "Christ" appeared there 
instead of " the Soul " in the final passages. I found that the 
words, " Christ shall arise and reign," were too literally inter- 
preted as a statement that Jesus Christ was to come in the flesh 



NOTES. 461 

and rule the world ; and as I meant nothing of the sort, but only 
that the spiritual part of Christ should be present during the 
reign of the perfect Spitit of Humanity, I have taken good care 
this time to avoid misconstruction. There is another miscon- 
struction which I fear — that of a mere pantheistic reading of my 
" Cantata." Surely, however, no reader who has followed my 
representation of divine agencies throughout the Drama will 
do me the injustice of supposing that I consider man by any 
means the highest of beings. There are times, indeed, when I 
doubt if he is the highest of animals. We find on examination 
that those gentlemen who insist most on the superiority of man 
in the scale of nature, insist quite as much on the adjective 
" white," and coming a little nearer home, on the adjective 
"British." The formula that man is highest of beings, when 
uttered here in Britain, then generally resolves itself into this 
other formula — " the British white man is the highest of beings." 
Conceive a chain of development culminating in Mr. Carlyle at 
one point, at another in Mr. Disraeli, and at another in ex- 
Governor Eyre. 



ON MYSTIC REALISM: 



ON MYSTIC REALISM. 



"Poesie ist das absolut Reelle. Dies ist der Kern meiner Philosophie. 
Je poetischer, je wahrer." — Novalis (Schriften, vol. iii. p. 171). 



In the present work, and in the works which have pre- 
ceded it from the same pen, an attempt is made to com- 
bine two qualities which the modern mind is accustomed to 
regard apart — reality and mystery, earthliness and spiri- 
tuality ; and this combination, whether a merit or a fault, 
is a consequence of natural temperament, and perfectly 
incurable. The writer dropped into a world a few years 
ago like a being fallen from another planet. His first 
impression was one of surprise and awe ; — he stood and 
wondered — and here, on the same spot, he stands and 
wonders still. What is nearest to him seems so sublime, 
unaccountable, and inexhaustible, andoccasionally,indeed, 
so droll and odd, that he has never ceased to regard it 
with all the eyes of his soul from that day to this. 
Others may go to the mountain-tops and interrogate the 
spheres. Wiser men may peruse the Past, and see there, 
afar away, the dreamy poetry for which the spirit eternally 
yearns. More acquiescent men may look heavenward, 
slowly and strangely losing the habit of earthly perception 
altogether. With all these, with all who love beauty near 
or afar away, in any shape or form, abides the twofold 
blessing of reverence and love. But the Mystic is 
occupied hopelessly with what immediately surrounds 
him. Minuter examination leads only to extremer joy 
H H 



66 ON MYSTIC REALISM: 

and wonder. To him this ever-present reality is the 
only mystery, and in its mystery lies its sublime fascina- 
tion and beauty. Only what is most real and visible and 
certain is marvellous, and only that which is marvellous 
has the least fascination. What he sees may be seen by 
every soul under the sun, for it is the soul's own reflec- 
tion in the river of life glassed to a mirror by its own 
speed. 

This close examination of human nature from the 
mystic side is not so common that men will tolerate it 
calmly. " What is the dullard looking at ? " cries the 
passer-by ; " what are these wretched beings who sur- 
round him? — costermongers, thieves, magdalen-women, 
village schoolmasters, nomads, — what is the sentimentalist 
trying to find among these ? He floods them with the light 
of his own vacant mind, and calls that light their souls .'" 
So the speaker passes on — to the heights of the Alps, 
perhaps, where he finds communion; God communicating 
with all men somewhere. A more elaborate person pauses 
next before the Mystic. " The man is in error," is his 
criticism ; " he would fain prove himself an artist, but 
art deals only with things beautiful, — with remote forms 
of nature, with the dreamy past, with antique turns of 
thought, with what is essentially exquisite in itself— and 
it has, moreover, a terminology quite at variance with 
ordinary speech. Man yearns to the unknown and illimit- 
able, and demands distance in the subjects of his art." 
And this other goes his way, grateful to God for Greece 
and Italy, and for Lessing and Winkelman. Mean- 
time the poor criticised barbarian has not budged. He 
looks on into the eyes nearest to him, and ah ! what 
distance does he not find there ? Approaching each 
creature as ever from the mystic side, he becomes, in 
spite of himself, an optimist. The moment he seizes 
or examination is the divine moment, when the creature 
under examination — be it Buonaparte or a street-walker, 
Bismarck or " Barbara Gray " — is at its highest and best, 



A NOTE FOR THE ADEPT. 467 

whether that " best " be intellectual beatification or the 
simple vicarious instinct which merges in the identity 
of another. He sees the nature spiritualised, in the dim 
strange light of whatever soul the creature possesses. 
This light is often very dim indeed, very doubtful — so 
doubtful that its very existence is denied by non-mystic 
men whose musings assume the purely spiritual and 
unimaginative form. But be the teaching true or false, 
be the light born in the subject examined or in the human 
sentiment that broods over it, this mystic approach to the 
creature at his highest point of spiritualisation, this mode 
of approach which seems unnatural to many because it 
involves the most minute enumeration of details and the 
most careful display of the very facts of life which artists 
try most to conceal, is the only procedure possible to the 
present writer. The personal key-note to all his work — 
poor enough, God knows, is all that work from his own 
point of view — is to be found in the " Book of Orm," and 
most of all in the poem entitled " The Man Accurst." 

Imagination is not, as some seem to imply, the power 
of conjuring up the remote and unknowable, but the gift 
of realising correctly in correct images the truths of 
things as they are and ever have been. He who can see 
no poetry in his own time is a very unimaginative person. 
The truly imaginative being is he who carries his own 
artistic distance with him, and sees the mighty myths ol 
life vivid yet afar off, glorified by the truth which is 
Eternal. How many people can walk out on a starry 
night, or sit by the side of the sea, unmoved ? But let a 
comet appear, or a star shoot, and they exclaim, " How 
beautiful ! " Let a whale rise up in the water and roar, and 
they think, " How wonderful are the works of God ! " 
These are the people, and their name is legion, who lack 
as yet the consecrating gleam of the imagination. As for 
the Mystic, he needs neither a comet nor a whale to fill 
his soul with a sense of the wonderful ; he needs still less 
the dark vistas of tradition or the archaic scenery of 



468 ON MYSTIC REALISM; 

obscure periods. He comes into the world, as has been 
said, like a man dropped from the moon, and he walks all 
his life as among wonderful beings in a strange clime. 
How far has he not wandered, how far has he not yet to 
wander ? — and every face he sees is turned in the same 
direction. Faces ! how they haunt them with their weird 
beauty and divine significance ! Go where he may, his 
path swarms with poetic forms. All is glorified and 
awful. What is nearest seems of all the most sublime 
and unaccountable. It is with difficulty that he can bear 
any book or contemplate any painted picture, seeing 
what books and pictures present themselves in the 
strangely- coloured lives of his fellow-beings. He turns 
to history — not in disdain of what exists, but in search of 
explanation and corroboration, and in order to discover 
what part of the strange show there is perishable, what part 
is durable and eternal. Having as he thinks discovered 
that, he may become a poet, and put on record his own 
idea or autobiography, written in reference to his own 
time, but to be used in all after-times as explanatory and 
corroborative. Homer, the Greek tragedians, Aristo- 
phanes, Plato, David and the prophets, the authors of 
the Sagas and Lieds, Dante, Boccaccio, Rabelais, Wil- 
liam Langdale, Chaucer, the ballad-singers of Scotland 
and England, Ben Jonson, Shakspere, La Fontaine, Burns, 
Wordsworth, Jean Paul, Balsac, Shelley, Tennyson, Whit- 
man, — do we find any of these men, poets all of them, 
turning away from his own time because it is too unin- 
teresting ? or, on the contrary, do we find them penetrat- 
ing to the very soul of it, stirring to every breath of it, 
uttering every dream and aspiration of it ? Does Dante 
try to write like Virgil, though he sits at Virgil's feet ? 
Does Chaucer ape Boccaccio, though he wears the Deca- 
meron next his heart ? Does Ben Jonson reproduce Plautus 
or La Fontaine Rabelais ? Does Burns, having drunk 
Scotch ballads into his soul, sing as the ballad-writers 
sang ? Do we find Wordsworth seeking for subjects far 



A NOTE FOR THE ADEPT. 469 

back in the dark ages ? Has Shelley so little imagination 
as to reproduce Greek tragedy as it was, or so much 
imagination as to make of his " Prometheus " a veritable 
modern poem [in spite of the falsehood and shallowness 
of the myth it preserves] with a distinctly modern purpose 
and scope ? 

" But," some one again interposes, " this is such an 
unpoetic age, and the surroundings of modern life are so 
vulgar." The writer understands this objection, and 
there is reason in it. The majority of people find their 
ordinary associations vulgar and unpoetic, and like to be 
lured away from them and interested. . So much the 
worse, alas ! for the majority. But let it be at once 
admitted that the poet fails altogether if he fails to lure 
readers and interest them as they desire. He is no mere 
moral teacher, but a singer of the beautiful, and his real 
business in this world is not to join in a chorus raised by 
any group of people, but to explain some point of beauty 
which has rested altogether hidden until his advent. It 
people are unimaginative, he comes to teach them imagi- 
nation : if people dislike modern subjects, he comes to 
make them like modern subjects. If ordinary people 
perceived the sublime mysteries of contemporary life, if 
ordinary people understood the faces and souls they 
behold daily, it would be a waste of time to sing to them. 
If men in general understood the higher historical issues 
and perceived the higher poetry of the siege of Paris, 
what good would it be to celebrate it in song? And this 
poem, for example, fails altogether — is veritably less than 
nothing — is a futility, a mere wind-bag — if it does not 
make the reader feel the events it describes as he never, 
by any possibility, felt them before. 

In the " Drama of Kings," as in " London Poems," 
" Inverburn," and " Meg Blane," in the presentment of 
the characters of Buonaparte, Louis Napoleon, and Prince 
Bismarck, — as in the characters of " Nell," " Liz," " Meg 
Blane," and the rest, — one point of view is adopted ; not 



47o ON MYSTIC REALISM. 



the point of view of the satirist, nor that of the politician, 
nor that of the historian ; but that of the realistic Mystic, 
who, seeking to penetrate deepest of all into the soul, and 
to represent the soul's best and finest mood, seizes that 
moment when the spiritual or emotional nature is most 
quickened by sorrow or by self-sacrifice, by victory or by 
defeat. In good honest truth, the writer has had far 
greater difficulty in detecting the spiritual point in these 
great leaders than in the poor worms at their feet. The 
utterly personal moods of arbitrary power, the impossibility 
of self-abnegation for the sake of any other living creature, 
the frightful indifference to all ties, the diabolic supremacy 
of the intellect, make the first Emperor a figure more 
despairing to the Mystic than the coster girl dying in 
childbed in a garret, or the defiant woman declaiming 
over the corpse of her deformed seducer. It is this sense 
of the superlatively diabolic that has made the author, in 
the Epilogue, attribute the performance of the three lead- 
ing characters to Lucifer himself; — only let it be under- 
stood not to the irreclaimable and Mephistophelian type 
of utter evil, but to the Mystic's Devil, a spirit difficult to 
fathom individually, but clearly in the divine service 
working for good. Perhaps, by the way, the supernatural 
machinery of Prelude and Epilude is a defect, like all 
allegory ; and if the consensus of wise criticism inclines 
to its condemnation as a defect, it will be obliterated, no 
author having a right to resist the wish of his readers 
where their dislike corresponds with a doubt of his 
own. But if it serves to keep before the reader the 
fact that the whole action of the drama is seen from the 
spiritual or divine auditorium, he will not regret its intro- 
duction ; and in using it without perfect faith, he may 
plead the example of the greatest poetic sceptic of modern 
times. No one did fuller justice to mystic truths than 
the great positivist who wrote the first and second 
" Fausts." 

Concerning the mere form of the poem and its resem- 



A NOTE FOR THE ADEPT. 471 

blances to the Greek, little need be said. It is the first 
serious attempt ever made to treat great contemporary 
events in a dramatic form and very realistically, yet with 
something of the massive grandeur of style characteristic of 
the great dramatists of Greece. In minor points of detail 
the author is sanguine that it is not at all Greek, nor in 
any sense of the word archaic. The interest is epic rather 
than tragic ; but what the leading character is to a 
tragedy France is to the "Drama of Kings," — a wonderful 
genius guilty of many sins, terribly overtaken by misfor- 
tune, and attaining in the end perhaps to purification. 
It is unnecessary to add any more by way of explana- 
tion, save to say that most of the metrical combinations 
used in the choruses are quite new to English poetry, and 
that where a measure is employed which has been used 
successfully by any previous poet, the fact is chronicled 
in the notes. 

One word in conclusion. For this new experiment in 
poetic realism, the writer asks no favour but one — a quiet 
hearing. He has a faint hope that if readers will do him 
the honour to peruse the work as a whole, and then 
patiently contemplate the impression left in their own 
minds, the first feeling of repulsion at an innovation may 
give place in the end to a pleasanter feeling. Perhaps, 
however, this is too much to ask from any member of so 
busy a generation, and he should be grateful to any one 
who will condescend to read the " Drama" in fragments. 

Die Masse konnt ihr nur durch Masse zwingen ; 
Ein Jeder sucht sich endlich selbst was aus. 
Wer vieles bringt, wird manchem etwas bringen, 
Und Jeder geht zufrieden aus dem Haus. . . . 
Was hilft's, wenn ihr ein Ganzes dargebracht ! 
Das Publicum wird es eucb doch zerpfliicken. 

Robert Buchanan. 



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